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Negan's room was dark.
Darker than she remembered, if that were possible, with deep coal walls, ebony sheets, scant sunlight filtering through the stain-glass windows. I emitted a deep, red, almost burgundy tint on everything.
It wasn't until she rolled the window open and sat on the sill, her legs curled to her chest, that light entered the room. It cast upon her dejected face. Everything smelled like him: fresh, with a hint of leather. It entered into her lungs as cold air, biting at her insides as a reminder of what had happened.
Dusk was fast approaching, as was the mellowing sky, and the tinges of colors billowing over the clouds. She could see her father from where he sat, on a park bench planted near the garden she'd worked laboriously on with Vincent. He was morose. Hard to pick out from her spot stories up, but red eyes, and damp roots, his usual demeanor when he was lost with no alternative routes. Like trapped by Negan's men in a circle, or under the reign of the governor.
He'd gotten shot once. In the stomach, only a couple inches lower than Negan. She was called from school that day and brought to the hospital. He didn't wake up. He didn't die, either, but everybody else did. He told her once it was an excruciating burn, once that begins to take effect once the realization sinks in. It's a terrible feeling, not knowing if you'll be alive in a few hours.
It was an equally terrible feeling not knowing Negan's fate. Having to wait out each moment in as much emotional agony as physical for him. The tears on her cheeks were dried, but her insides were still aching.
When she looked back down, Rick was gone, and Daryl was in his place. He was eyeing the building with contempt, most likely remembering what had gone down in the cells. Dwight was leaned against the car, fingers tugging at his hair. Nobody quite knew what happened yet, but the way his face was twisted, brooding over what was imminent, he knew the future held nothing good for him if Negan survived and was informed that Dwight had been part of the act.
Negan was happy. It was rare to see him genuinely untroubled, being held under the weight of The Sanctuary, the pressures of who lives and who dies on his shoulders, keeping his people alive and thriving. When he was with her, it was a release. She could see it in his eyes, as he stood out in the opening, arms out-held moments before the bullet penetrated his chest. She could feel it in his touch.
A rhythmic knock sounded through the room, two knocks, three, then another two. She scowled and barely turned to see who would come through.
Tentatively, a figure slipped through a slight crack in the frame. Eugene held a tray in his hands containing baked beans and toast, with a side of fresh fruit. She twitched her brow upward.
