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The sunlight beamed through the sheer white curtains. She couldn't sleep. How could she, with the strong rays of the sun blinding her? She wanted to rip them off, tear them to shreds. Not just because they were depriving her of a good night's sleep, but because they belonged to Negan. She was in his room, once again, during the early hours of the frosted morning.
She was locked in. Only Negan would have a lock from the outside. She almost broke it off in frustration, before giving a good hard kick to the door. She wasn't even sure how she'd gotten there. The last memory she had was of Negan coming onto her, her acting flustered and dismissing it. She stacked books for an hour, then sat and conversed for another. Everything after that was a blur.
A strong sense of deja vu washed over her as she awaited his return. She slipped on a record, luckily she'd left the album Negan had generously gifted her with in his room. So, she listened to that as she waited and waited. It seemed like hours. She couldn't rest anymore.
She got to her feet and paced around the room, humming to the music while song after song played. The gentle crackling of the record player sent a wave of relaxation throughout her body. She would do the same back at her old home. She'd slip on Wicked Game and let the melody repair her good mood. Usually, school got her down. With a small amount of friends and lots of work, the days weren't too exciting.
She began to dance. If there was one thing she couldn't do, that was dance. She ran her hands down her body, her slim waist, and allowed herself to feel relaxed, not embarrassed. Although her moves weren't up to par, it did make her happy, and she loved to do it. So she did. She played the song over and over again, and danced.
Her hands trailed down her slim waist, then over her backside where she felt the pockets of her jeans. She almost disregarded the lump she felt in her pocket as her hand dragged over it. Her eyes opened, widening when she realized just what it was. She pulled it from the jean material. A knife.
She'd left the gun in the bookstore, but she had the knife. That was all that mattered. She hugged it to her chest and ran her hand over the hilt. The warm, metal hilt.
Would she attempt another murder, slice his neck in the middle of the night? She wasn't sure. Thinking about it, the blood dripping down his rough, stubbled neck, seemed pleasing yet distasteful. She would do absolutely anything for her family, but if there was one thing she'd learned in the month and a half she'd been there was that Negan was no idiot. He was always two steps ahead of you, no matter where you were. Hell, he probably knew what she was doing at that moment. A stretch, but that's just who he was. He wasn't the leader of a fearless group for nothing.
She shoved it in her pocket and began to ponder. She could stay, kill him. Make a rough gash in his throat in the dead of the night, silent, quick, and then be on her way. As much as it seemed like it would work, it seemed just as stupid. So, she shoved it in her pocket for another day. Who knows, maybe it would be useful.
