Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
EVERYTHING WENT TO HELL that evening.
I wasn't there to try and stop it. I didn't have to witness it. In my pupils — the image of our beloved ones being mercilessly killed wasn't burned into my soul. I didn't see, but I didn't need to. It was still inside of me; the pictures of it. Words did not need to be said to show me.
A bat, and a man. The real Negan. The way my group was forced to their knees, and knelt before him like he was some kind of worshipped god. But he was no god, because god did not exist. He was nothing of celestialization. Negan was simply a man who spoke of unreachable power through the whistle of his lips. He swung his weapon in their faces, and fear swept past the twisted bat. Then, death came.
It came for Abarham, and it went just as Negan commanded. The reaper of death walked back and forth, weaving through their bowed bodies. It grabbed the man so tight by the heart that the bat barley did anything but burst his skull. Death really came, when it wrapped its fingers around the source of his body, and gave it a palpation. Then he was gone, and death was called to another man. Glenn. And the reaper did just the same as it did to Abarham, only leaving the spilt blood of themselves to be scuffed off the toughened gravel when the sun finally rose past the line of trees.
I didn't see a thing — I didn't need to. I saw enough, and enough was too much.
When the closet door had opened, freeing me at last, I became more confined than ever before. Behind the door, there was no boy. Only Rosita. She told me everything, with little filter. About all the men. The bright headlights, the cries, and the red splattered everywhere. Something was gone, behind her eyes. I quickly learned this to be the same with everyone who had been there, that night. Their souls were worn so thin that they were tearing and unraveling; no amount of thread of glue could fix.
Negan stripped them of the willpower to fight. I wasn't so sure they even wanted to, after everything that happened.
Although, I still held it all. The anger, the resentment. It seemed all of it rained down on me as if it were the most intense storm one would ever set foot in. I was vexed. With every fiber in my being, it was all I felt. All I could pinpoint, as the structure of my guitar split at the contact of the walls surrounding me. The thing I had begun holding dearly, was being torn apart by my own hands. Crackling wood. The heavy strings were pulled apart and dangling, unattached to anything. When I was done, only the debris were left scattered across my room. I tossed the headstock into the small metal trashcan in the corner, giving it none less than another thought.
