OUTLIVE.
❝The dead were never the enemy.
It was the living. ❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
DARYL DIXON.
BOOK TWO of the LANCASTER SAGA.
[ SEASONS 4 - 6 ]
*****
*I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. I simply write to write. Astrid, any addi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
[ lxvii. threat first, human being second ]
october 16th, 2012
➸➸➸
IN THE STILLNESS OF the night, Astrid found herself once again on her knees, wracked by an assault that threatened to tear her apart from within. It was a different kind of imprisonment this time, not the irritating grip of duct tape but the fiery burn of sickness, leaving her doubled over the porcelain of a toilet, each retch a violent upheaval of her insides.
Her chest tightened painfully with each heave, her head swimming with a feverish haze that blurred the edges of her vision. The tears that streamed down her cheeks mingled with the bile that stained her lips, creating a bitter concoction of misery. She was no longer certain what hour of the night it was. All she knew was that she was utterly alone—or so she believed.
The bathroom door creaked open behind her. Astrid did not turn, did not even flinch as a pair of large, warm hands landed upon her shoulders. Gently, tenderly, those hands swept back her sweat-soaked hair, revealing the clammy pallor of her neck and face.
As another wave of nausea crashed over her, Astrid shuddered violently, her whole body convulsing with the effort to expel the poison. Eventually, she forced her head away from the foulness of the toilet bowl. The flush, and hollow gurgle of swallowed swirling water that followed, echoed through the silent room.
Exhausted and spent, Astrid exhaled heavily. Her fingers trembled as they clung to the toilet's cold rim, the worn, gauze bandages wrapped around them offering little protection against the raw agony that radiated from her battered skin. Red, blue, and purple bruises colored her flesh, the throbbing pain pulsing through her shattered hands.
Both palms were split right down the palm. Her right hand, however, bore the worst of the damage, the bones fractured and splintered upon bone and cement. Denise had called it a "boxer's fracture," as if it were some mundane injury to be cataloged and filed away, but Astrid knew better. It was a reminder of the price she had paid for her freedom from a slaughterhouse—a twisted scar that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.
And yet, despite the searing pain, Astrid had initially harbored no regret for the actions that had brought her to this moment. Michelle had provoked her wrath. It had been so easy, so intoxicating, to tear the woman apart.
But now, as Astrid knelt in the aftermath of her vengeance, the memory of that violent act would not lessen its intensity. It was not just her physical pain that brought her to her knees now—it was the knowledge of what existed within her, the knowledge that she was capable of such cruelty, such brutality, when pushed to the edge. She had crossed a line in that slaughterhouse, a line that she feared she could never uncross.
Astrid let out a faint groan as she shifted away from the toilet and leaned back into her husband's legs. His hands, which had been tangled in her hair, now settled atop her head, offering a gentle massage to ease the ache in her temples. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to revel in the sensation of his touch, the rhythmic movement of his fingers against her scalp.
