After your world fell into black putrefaction, you soon realize that walkers are the least of your worries. Tragedy and loss has led you to fear attachment more so than the undead. You thought hiking the trail of survival was best accomplished alone...
White light flooded your vision as your eyelids were being pulled open gently by a calloused finger. Every stretch of sinew in your body was sore, as if you'd tumbled violently in a washing machine. The sudden exposure to light made you squint, and your legs bucked. Bouncing slightly as you kicked, you felt a mattress cradling your back. Sheets tangled around your feet. Clenching your fists, you realized they'd been tautly wrapped in bandages. Your vision was muddled. Trying to recognize faces and shapes was like playing I Spy in a sandstorm. I spy with my little eye... you thought wearily as sharp pains squeezed your brain. Something skinny and pale...straw hair and a pinkish, wrinkled face... You always played this game to keep your mind sharp as a tack, especially in situations like these. Wrinkled? Maybe not wrinkled. More like...burnt. You knew who it was.
"Hello...anybody in there?" the figure snickered as he turned the small flashlight on and off repeatedly. "How's it going, No-Name?" The bright strobing made your head scream in agony. "That was a damn hard fall, sweetie. You were out stone cold for almost a whole day." It was Dwight. Of course it was! The last thing you desired was to wake up with that obnoxious prick toying with you like you were a defenseless frog in science class.
"You motherfucker..." you attempted to exclaim, but your voice was so raspy, the words squeaked out pitifully.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Awwwww, look at ya. How cute!" he taunted. "Like a caged butterfly." Mimicking the fluttering of the creature, he flapped his arms and laughed. "Well we're gonna have to clip those wings." He grabbed one of your bandaged hands and crushed it in his grip. And holy SHIT, it hurt like an eighteen wheeler was slowly driving over it.
"Let go, you asshole!" you yelled and your voice cracked. You sounded weak. Even your vocal chords winced in discomfort.
"Oh I'm the asshole? At least I didn't cut up your neck with glass or blast your foot off, you piece of shit."
His glacial eyes pierced you as he tightened his fist around your palm. Dwight was clearly referring to the guard you threatened outside the factory and the vested man that chased you near the fence. What if those beasts were in this make-shift hospital, as well? That encounter would be awkward. What would you say? Hey, sorry for fucking you guys up like that. I was just having a psychotic episode. We all get a little wild sometimes, am I right? you mused as you imagined running into them.
"I don't want to cause any more trouble, Dwight." Your eyes flitted around the area as you spoke. The paint-peeled walls surrounded you like iron bars in your cot. Your section was marked by a white curtain that ran from the door of the musty room to the window behind you--nailed shut with wooden boards. Trapped, once again. You took a deep breath in though your nose. "I just want to leave."
"Doesn't matter what you want," Dwight hissed and threw down your hand. The rush of blood from his firm grip darkened your bandages, but the intense pain was relieved. "Only Negan can decide. Everything around here is his...or will be." Each time Dwight mentioned Negan, darkness clouded his eyes. Though he seemed to be his lieutenant, he definitely held some grave grudge against him.
