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...
It was a wonder why the only calendar in The Sanctuary was in Negan's office! You lost track of the days on three different occasions, and counting. Time seemed to speed up since you were welcomed as one of The Saviors. After your roller coaster of a conversation with Negan, he decided to punish you in the most petty ways possible: A shit ton of errands and the silent treatment. He barely acknowledged you after you stormed out on him back in August. Even when he overheard you tossing crude jokes around with the men, he'd point Lucille at you and declare, "Points deducted for screwing around. Get the fuck back to work!" Though you wanted to rip his head off for ruining your fun, you didn't retaliate. Not in front of the men. Negan was killing you with tasks, but you didn't want to be perceived as a whiney, little pussy. You thought he'd cool down in a few days, but the days turned into weeks...then months. His grudge against you and his foul mood was a dreadful combination. In his brooding state, he doubled your workload.
The task lists he administered to you and the rest of the men were nothing short of exhausting. From supply runs to cleaning up herds of walkers on the outskirts of your territory, your duties left you dying for sleep. You were so drained, a couple of men joked and asked if you were turning into one of the undead. They had grown very protective of you over time--especially after the showdown with Dwight. They praised you for your bravery and treated you like a little sibling. But you didn't appreciate them fretting over your health. Brushing off their comments, you'd continue to slave away as Autumn flew by.
In this time, you managed to visit Nicole a lot more often. You'd help stock the wive's lounge with hair products, winter clothes, aromatic lotions, and nail polish. Her company was a delightful respite from your countless tasks. She could tell that you were withering away. Your diet consisted of apples and peanut butter--courtesy of Dwight, who would scavenge for these items to keep a smile on your face. But you started to look frail. Any trace of baby fat on your body soon transformed into muscle.
One day in Nicole's room, where you were showering her with little trinkets from the supply run, she mentioned, "You look like a bag of bones!" She applied cherry-red lipstick to her plump lips after she nit-picked your thinning figure. You couldn't help but watch her--mesmerized.
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
"Are you alright?" she chirped. She puckered her lips at you, coyly.
You hated that inquiry. Even if you weren't alright, you rejected words of concern. "I'm fine, no worries," you replied. Your voice sounded meek.
"Jackie, you don't have to play tough with me. What's wrong?" Nicole asked, placing her arm around you. Her frilly, hot-pink robe tickled your skin.
Noticing the anxiety in her baby blues, you responded, "I don't know, Nickie. There's just been a lack of action. The days are starting to melt into each other. Nothing new, nothing exciting...just a fuck ton of shit to cross off the list."
