The Ruins

Chapter 62

Negan didn't get a single second of sleep that night.

Mal's voice echoed in his head, "He raped me." It ran through his mind over and over again like a mantra on repeat, a constant reminder of the conversation they'd had that night. Each time it played he wanted to hit himself, wanted to beat the shit out of his past self for not realizing what was happening sooner. Memories played out like a movie in his brain, he frantically searched them for any hint of what was happening to Mal. Small things, insignificant moments that he'd passed off suddenly became more poignant, strange behaviors of being touched that he told himself were just being too personal in her own space, the time where they fought because she thought he would be like Charlie, the painful conversation he'd sensed between Charlie and talking about Mal at the meeting, it all piled together to fit into the puzzle. It seemed so damn obvious, how the fuck had he missed it? Anger at himself surged up within him, his body tensed in the chair, nails dug into his palms as he scrunched his hand up. The pain was the only release from the rage inside him that so desperately yearned for an outlet.

He knew he'd never sleep like this, he was far too wired, far too tempted to hunt Charlie down and make him regret even looking at Mal. He knew he'd be able to find him. All Negan would have to do is drive around a little more, cover some more ground, let all his people to guard over the people protecting Charlie. His mind provided helpful images about what he'd do to him, his toes almost curled in pleasure as he thought about slamming his bat down onto his head. His cries of pain, pleads for him to stop would be music to his ears. Negan knew he wouldn't stop, that fucker didn't stop so why would he? He'd keep hitting, feel the warmth of blood hit his own face as he destroyed him. The fantasy pulled him in, it almost had him up and out of the door with his Ellie. It'd be worth driving in the goddamn Tradepost if it meant he could give Mal peace in this world.

Mal.

The one thing that stopped him from moving out of the chair, part of the reason he knew he wouldn't sleep like this. He couldn't leave her, he'd promised he'd stay there with her, watch over her whilst she slept and he'd never want let her down again. So he sat there, stewing in his own anger, watching as Mal's chest rose and fell with each breath. She looked so damn peaceful, her face was relaxed for once, not a single bit of tension appeared on it. Now he knew why that tension had been there, if only he'd known back then. Maybe he should have pushed more, he'd known something had been wrong, he'd just assumed it was not trusting any man. Maybe if he'd asked her more, made het feel more comfortable then she might have told him what was going on. How many nights of horrific abuse could he have saved her from?

A surge of vomit hit his throat as he thought about all the opportunities he'd missed to realise what was going on. He just about made it to the bathroom before he threw up that night's dinner. Negan slumped against the wall by the toilet, panting heavily as his mind played in of all the times Mal would come in with fresh bruises, a face that was more absent than usual, a new limp that Mal would said as an accident and she's fine to her friends, and how she quails before Negan because of the abuse. Everything that's happened through him and her friends was right under their damn noses. More acid burned his throat as bile hit the toilet. He squeezed his eyes shut against the images of Charlie wrapping his fucking hands around Mal, seeing him smooth a hand across her shoulder. He gagged again his body shook again as it tried to bring anything up. How many times had Mal begged for him to save her? How many times had Negan failed her and notice the signs?

Breathing hard he sat back against the wall, bringing his knees up to rest his arms on them. He dragged a towel down from the rack to the side of him, the soft cotton a blessing against his face. He breathed into it, inhaling the familiar scent of the laundry powder, he almost laughed at his thoughts. Stupid fucking thing to focus on. You gotta pull yourself together Negan, this isn't about you and your fucking pity party. He sat there for a moment, waiting for his stomach to settle. As soon as he was sure he wasn't about to heave over the toilet again he used the towel rack to pull himself up. He slowly crept back into the bedroom, resisting the urge to go to the pantry and grab the bottle of whisky he knew was waiting for him, the last thing Mal needed was another drunk guy around her. He sat back in the chair, why the fuck had he even bought this damn thing? It was like sitting on a bag of fucking nails, and it was tiny, he wasn't a large guy by any means and he could barely fit in the damn thing. He shuffled back into the chair, throwing the blanket he'd grabbed over his legs as he closed his eyes, he needed to get some sleep if he was going to be any use to Mal in the morning.