Future Ghosts • TWD

145. Two Lives.

"Stop it. Stop it," Rosie whispered to herself, shooting up off of her bed. 

Yes, she knew it was ok to cry. It'd been drilled into her brain by now. But, right now, the last thing she wanted was to cry because she didn't want anyone to hear her. She didn't want any help right now. She wanted to deal with it on her own. She could. She'd done it before. She wasn't some kid who didn't know how to deal with herself. She was capable. She was fine. 

Daryl's busy. Deal with it yourself. 

But Rosie wanted her dad. She wanted him in there with her, helping her. But she knew she wasn't the only person in the world. She wasn't the most important thing, and that was ok. She understood. But she still wished Daryl was there. 

She began pacing around the room, pulling her hair, pressing on her eyes, and covering her mouth. Breathe. Breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. Breathe. Breathe. 

Just breathe, darlin'. 

"God, calm the fuck down," she muttered.

Before she knew it, Rosie was picking up the first thing she could see- which happened to be one of her small dinosaur toys- and chucking it at the wall. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with a quiet clatter. 

The next thing Rosie laid eyes on was a flashlight. Don't throw the fucking flashlight, psycho. She stood in the center of her bedroom, taking fast, shaky breaths and pressing her hands so hard into her eyes that it made her entire skull throb with pain. 

Breathing was getting harder and harder. She thought about David. She thought about the prisoners. She thought about the Governor. She thought about the Claimers. Terminus. Glenn. Abraham. Sasha. Carl. And she thought about the Whisperers. Alpha. She thought about Alpha cutting Enid's head clean off. She thought about seeing it on a stick. She thought about Fraser. She thought about seeing him dead in his closet. She wanted him back. He'd understand. He always understood. 

You still hurtin'?

Yes. Yes, she was still hurtin'. She took some more breaths. In and out, in and out, in and out. She uncovered her eyes and stared at her shoes. How many eyelets? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. Per shoe. 

That wasn't fucking helping this time. 

 If I could take your pain and make it mine, I would.

Rosie stormed out of her bedroom, keeping her head down. Lucky for her, no one else was anywhere in the house where they would have seen her passing by. She rushed out the front door and turned right. 

Down, down, down the sidewalk she stepped until she met the bars that shielded the window to Negan's cell. She walked down the steps and knocked on the door urgently. 

"What?" came Negan's annoyed-sounding voice. He probably thought it was Daryl coming to yell at him again. 

"Can I- um, can I talk to you?" Rosie asked, trying to make her voice sound less like she had just been crying. 

Negan instantly perked up hearing that it was Rosie and not Daryl. But then his eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the shakiness of her voice. "Yeah. Come on in, kid," he said. Quickly, Rosie opened the door and stepped inside. Negan was sitting on his bed, a confused and concerned look on his face. Rosie shoved her hands into her pockets and stepped closer to the bars that separated the two of them. "You alright, kiddo?" Negan asked.  

"Yeah. Yeah, I just have a question," Rosie said, quickly trying to wipe away another tear that found its way out of the corner of her eye. 

"Shoot," Negan said, raising his eyebrows. He was trying to lighten the mood. He always tried to lighten the mood. Sometimes it was nice, but sometimes it was annoying. Right now, though, Rosie just didn't care.