𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 | 𝘤. 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴

forty two. haven

I don't want you to die. I don't want our family to die. However, I'm selfish — I always have been, because most of all, I won't let myself die. Not you, or them. Me.

You promised you'd keep me from it. You know how afraid I am to die. I may be selfish, but I'm not stupid. I know that I cannot ever truly be protected from death. At least, not like how we're living. Over time, I've realized I'd do anything to avoid it. Even if that means, I join them. The saviors; Negan. I'm bringing peace to him. Not for us, but for me. Only me.

Negan will let me in. Don't let yourself think about it. Even though I'm sure if you've read this far, you must hate me more than you've ever hated anyone, I know you still care. Because if your words were true like mine were, you love me. I hope you know that everything we've ever spoke to one another was true. I do love you, back. You should believe that much.

This is goodbye. It may not be forever, but it might."

My lips finally slowed, and closed together. I didn't want to say it again, anymore. I wanted to forget. To close my eyes, and escape the dark room I was locked inside of. Although, when they shut, I was still immersed in the dark. It didn't make much difference, apart from the small break of light underneath the heavy metal door. With closed eyes, I could not block out the sound, echoing off the hall's walls. Replaying, repeatedly. Again and again.

This music had been going since early morning, when I was first brought to the room. Even as I had placed all my weapons down on the floor, it hadn't been good enough for the saviors. Some of them knew who I was. What I had done — or, attempted to do to their leader, Negan. So my hands had been quickly bound, and I was brought here. Forced to change into thick cotton clothes, then submerged into the cold cell.

That was when the music started. American Pie.

Something about it was extremely ironic. Not because it was a song which lasted around ten minutes, but because I knew all the words, before they had even begun playing. I could recall them, resonating from my family's car. My mother stayed on the same channel, often. She deeply loved all the songs which came from it, claiming those classics led her throughout her teenage years. Occasionally, she'd hum the lyrics under her breath as she went about her day. Eventually, the song became rooted into my sister and I's own mind. It was something that was always with us, later in our lives. After she was gone. Then, Allie. The tune seemed to suddenly die, with her death. I hadn't given the song one more thought, until this present time.

It was back, now. Singing to me, coaxing my soul with the gentle memory it brought past my eardrums.

'And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye, singin', "This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die".'

My head rested against the supporting brick, my eyes finally opening as the song was cut, refined light flooding across the blackened four walls enclosing me. A figure was between the light, the rays shining past their silhouetted body. They walked forward, then the door was closed behind them, leaving the two of us alone. The former light had tweaked my retinas, making this newfound darkness much more harrowing as I felt the person kneel in front of me.

It was quiet for multiple counts until two brass clicks sounded. Suddenly, a small flame was lit in the space between our bodies. The soft auburn glow provided me just enough light to study who sat in front of me, their rough demeanor cracking apart as their lips curled upwards.

Negan. In his dark pupils, I witnessed the flame flicker.

"Oh — you couldn't even picture the amusement on my face when I woke up this morning, and got wind of who was down here. No, you couldn't." He flicked the square lighter closed, then opened it again, pulling the lever and relighting the flame. "You here to kill me?"