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...
"God fucking damn it!" You slammed a collection of worn clothes inside the drawers of an old dresser. "None of this bullshit makes any fucking sense! If he doesn't believe in beating women, why the hell would he make someone else do it? I'm not John Cena!" Kicking one of the drawers shut, you tried to restrain yourself from tearing your hair out. Damn him. Damn him to hell.
It was move-in day. Negan had given you a small cell in the east block, and it was no more spacious than a walk-in closet. A sliver of a window shed a fraction of light into the room, and it barely illuminated the confines of the place. Your bed was an inflatable mattress--a bike tire pump was laid next to it for extra air. The place wreaked of mold and made you sneeze a few times as you packed away your belongings. Nicole generously gave you her old clothes: three pairs of jeans, two pairs of shorts, a few T-shirts, and one winter jacket. She was precisely right when she said you shared her size. You wondered why she was so kind to you, especially after your dramatic outburst. Of course you wanted to thank her in some way, but you knew you wouldn't be seeing much of her, now. Images of the wive's extravagant lounge flickered in your mind...from the gold ice-bucket to the detailed carvings on the white tea-table. Your brow furrowed in disgust as memories of their giggling echoed relentlessly within your thoughts. At least this prison-like cell wasn't splattered with peachy pink gossamer and doilies. You could handle the lack of decor.
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A dusty clock hung on the wall above your mattress. It was 9:30pm, which was around the time the men would convene in the cafeteria before taking the night-watch. Your stomach rumbled. They could've been kind enough to give the apples back! you thought as you finished folding your clothes. Would you dare set foot in the cafeteria? Even though those men had no right to touch you, you knew you'd be the laughing stock of the entire compound. But you were aware that if any of them harmed you or tried to take advantage, Lucille would bathe in their blood. Might as well test the waters.
You pulled your hair back, laced up your boots, and locked the door behind you as you left for the canteen--not even bothering to change your bandages. Taking deep breaths along the way, you attempted to relax your racing thoughts. No more shaking things up. You couldn't afford to give into your fiery temper from now on. The grumbling of masculine voices raised in volume as you drew closer to the cafeteria. There had to be forty or fifty men lingering in the area. You kept your head down as you entered, trying not to make eye contact with any of the hard-as-nails thugs. They all went about their usual activities--stuffing their faces with whatever food was offered and playing black jack for granola bars. A few men passed around some cigarettes and lit up as they commenced with their card games.
I. Would. Kill. For. A. Cigarette. You thought that perhaps you'd ask nicely for one, but everything in the canteen involved some trade. And you had absolutely nothing. Well, nothing tangible. But you most definitely were not going to wink and spread your legs just to bum a square. Hell, at this point, you'd break out the top hat and the tap shoes for one! The gears of your aching head started turning. You recalled a time when your father told you stories about how he'd earn cigarettes in the army. If he didn't have enough Ricola cough-drops to go around, he'd tell dirty jokes and side-splitting stories. You reasoned a good laugh would surely be more valuable than a couple of cough drops.
