"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

thirty eight, out of the woods

the air was unusually cold for an early morning in Virginia. Maybe it was just her fear that had turned her blood to ice, and as she spotted the house fires still burning fiercely, she knew that was indefinitely the case. Raising her watch to her reddened eyes, it read 3:45 am.

Dead bodies scattered the floor, soon to be walkers. Some had already started to raise from the grave, yet she just stormed on past as they tried to grab at her ankles. One had snapped it's teeth at her with entitlement, and she wasted no time in kicking it's head right in. The sound of skull and flesh under her foot should've been nauseating, yet, she'd started to enjoy the sound a little over a long time ago.

No saviours remained as far as she knew, but the group wouldn't leave, not for another few hours anyway. She shook the thought, because it was all she had been dwelling on since Rick suggested they leave first thing. She could not wait to leave here and guarantee Carl some actual care, and some comfort too.

Without knowing it, she'd already carried herself to the infirmary, and was stood glaring up at the windows from the rotted wooden porch. Opening the door with a sickening creak, she stepped in with no hesitation and gaped at the open empty cabinets.

Room after room, she took apart the doors from their hinges, yet she did not find a single thing - not even a plaster or a thermometer or something. For a minute, she just stood in the middle of it all and contemplated crying again. Then, another wave of nausea hit and afterwards: anger.

She picked up plates, cutlery, broken wood, pencils, you name it - and destroyed all of it. Screaming and thrashing and yelling. She didn't even think twice about consequences of the action, nor did she want to, and so she continued to destroy the place though it brought no comfort to her feeble mind.

She only stopped when she heard a creak from behind her head, and knew it wasn't a sound she had garnered. Swivelling on her heels, she raised her knife ready to swipe at whomever had come in, but the person was too quick, placing a hand on her shoulder gearing up to rip her arm in half. She froze in spot, not wanting any more damage to come to her elbow.

This person, though she could not see their face, smelled extremely familiar. Through all the coppery blood, she could sense a hint of leather and mint.

"I don't have time for this Negan!" She screamed, and she half expected him to mock her, or maybe even let out a small chuckle. But he didn't.

"You're gonna have to make room for it, kiddo," he said, sounding more serious than she'd ever heard him be. If this were one of their regular interactions, Jane would be trying to slit his throat by now. Her rage should've allowed her to do so, yet, killing him wasn't on her mind at all right now. Just Carl.

"GET OFF OF ME!"

"If you say so," he said calmly, and let her go. Keeping her knife right out in-front of her, she just stood there, looking scared. She swore Negan's face was surprised for a split second, because he'd never seen her this scared before. Not even at the lineup.

Then, his eyes followed the tip of her knife to the red on her palms.

"How's Carl?" He asked. There it is, that need for Negan's life to come to an end in her hands, because really, Carl was hurt because of him. He had no right to ask of Carl, to smile when he spoke his name. He had taken everything from her, every single thing, and now he was pretending he hadn't just traumatised a child. A sixteen year old girl who was just trying to survive, who had only wanted her family back.