"Her getting out man, that had nothing to do with me. I left her to die! I may hate that girl of yours, but she is a survivor."
Cassie Grimes never thought she'd see her family again, but when she met a young couple in a pharmacy, her luck changed.
...
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~ 5 months ago ~
'What am I doing here?' was a question that John often found himself asking to himself, his tone still desperate and lonesome whether in his head or screamed in his crushingly empty cell.
He ground the last of the corn, pouring it into the pot, his work for the day finally done. Despite the cold chill in the air, sweat ran down his forehead at every aching move of his arms, and every log that was added to the fire, readying the mixture for distillation.
Part of him expected his time in captivity to be different, constantly locked in his cell instead of forced to toil away alone in a room, steadily providing his captors with self-brewed moonshine.
Every moment he spent in Woodbury was torture, either working himself to the bone, despite his still healing gunshot wounds, or rotting in the corner of his cage, curled up into a ball like some sort of lame horse.
"Johnny Boy!" One of his captors, who's name he'd learned to be Merle, called out.
Johnny Boy. He hated that Merle called him that. What was once an innocent nickname given by his friend was now an insult, a taut reminder that he was stuck in this god awful place.
He wanted to be with his group. He wanted the effort that Maria made to make sure he felt included, the playful banter he had with Rudy, the caring smiles from Cassie, the jokes of Tim, and Minnow's potty mouth.
Instead, he was rotting away, alone.
Merle grabbed his shoulder roughly, indicating it was time to return to his cage. He knew not to speak, every soldier in this place having a temper as fragile as their masculinity.
Instead, he planted his feet for a few moments, then began to walk as though he was in a hurry, just as the man got frustrated.
"How's the moonshine coming?" Merle asked, leading him around a corner.
He bit his lip, focusing on his broken shoes instead of the man dragging him around.
"Talkative as ever." He sighed, his grip on the boy tightening, his nails digging painfully into his skin. "I'm beginning to wonder if you can even speak."
John rolled his eyes. Of course he could speak, he just didn't see the appeal of talking to him, or any of his friends. He only asked 'What am I doing here?' when he woke up, his wounds stitched and bandaged, the Governor at his beside, refusing to let him leave.
