The sun had gone down and Rosie was sitting in her room once again. She felt guilty for what she said. She knew it was bullshit when she said it, but she was angry so she said it, anyway. Sure, Daryl didn't want to help her in the beginning, but he made up for that. Hell, he chose to be her dad because he cared so much.
For now, Daryl was busy trying to get Lydia to calm down. She was getting more and more fed up with people treating her like crap all because of who her mother was. Someone had even spray-painted the words SILENCE THE WHISPERERS on their front door. Rosie hoped they'd get it figured out so that she could talk to Daryl and apologize.
Sometimes, Rosie felt like she was being an asshole to people just because she felt like shit. And she hated that. She wanted to be good and kind to people. But sometimes that constant sunken feeling in her gut just got her so worked up that she couldn't help but explode at people.
Daryl didn't end up coming into her room that night to talk. Rosie wasn't sure if he was still up or if he had gone to bed. All she knew was that he was still mad. She understood. She'd be mad, too, if she'd spent the last, maybe, eight years trying to help someone out of the goodness of her heart just for that someone to spit in her face and act like she was an asshole.
Rosie had all that guilt from being a jerk to Daryl weighing on her now, too. Not just the guilt of watching so many people die in such a brutal way and not doing anything about it. That was the heaviest part that Rosie couldn't ever seem to get off her mind no matter how hard she tried.
I'm a piece of shit, she kept thinking to herself, sitting on her bed and pressing the heels of her palms into her hows.
How could she have the audacity to act like Daryl was a bad person for not wanting to help her all those years ago when she hadn't helped all those people in that barn just months ago? She could've gotten up and tried to stop it. Sure, maybe she would have died, but at least she would have tried. She didn't even try.
She was an awful person. An awful, awful person who didn't have the guts to try and save her friends.
Everything hurt. Her head, her heart, her eyes, her whole body, but most of all, her mind. She should have died in that barn and that hurt to think about, but she was sure that it was true. She should have died with Henry. She should have had her head on a stick. Sure, Daryl and a few other people would have been sad, but at least Rosie would have died with a purpose. She would have died trying to save her friends. But no. Instead, she was living like a coward.
That was something David would do. Sacrifice his friends' lives for his own. I'm no better than the monster that beat me, Rosie thought to herself.
Her breathing was getting to that point that felt impossible again. She found herself craving a cigarette. Another thing David would do. God damnit. She dug her nails into her scalp, curling up tighter on the bed. She bit down hard on her lip until she tasted metallic blood in her mouth.
Soon enough, Rosie was crying. She pressed her hands harder into her eyes. "Stop cryin'," she muttered to herself, sucking in a deep breath. Next, she pressed her hands over her mouth to keep herself quiet. Daryl was busy was Lydia, and Rosie had been an asshole to him, so he didn't need to waste his time trying to comfort Rosie when she could- "Stop cryin'."- get over it herself.
Rosie growled in frustration, rubbing her hands up her face and through her hair, pulling, pulling, pulling on the roots of it. She was a glass of water, one crack away from shattering and flooding her bedroom with her tears. She wanted to hit something, but she didn't want to break anything. So she slammed her hand against her head just once.
"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.
"When- when Rick... died, uh, Maggie came here to kill you, right?" Rosie asked, not making any eye contact.
Negan nodded, even though he was unsure of why she was asking. "Hell yeah, she did. There was nothing she wanted more than for me to die. And, honestly? I respect it. That woman's got some massive balls," he said in an attempt to get a chuckle out of Rosie.
"You wanted to die," Rosie blurted, finally looking up from her shoes. Negan stayed silent. "That's why she didn't kill you. Because you wanted to die. Right? That's why?" Rosie asked again, raising her eyebrows. Still, Negan wouldn't say a thing. "If Maggie wanted you dead, she woulda' killed you, and I know she wanted you dead, but she didn't kill you. The only reason she would keep you alive is if you wanted to die. So you wanted to die, right?"
Blowing air out the side of his mouth, Negan stood up off of his cot and walked closer to the bars. "Well, yeah. I wanted to die. I wanted to be with Lucille," he explained.
"You wanted to be with her more than ya wanted to live," Rosie said, more as a statement than a question.
"I mean, you knew Lucille. She was... beautiful. Inside and out. She was funny, and smart, and kind. She was amazing," Negan reminisced. Rosie remembered Lucille, too. He was right. She was beautiful, inside and out. Even after all of her hair fell out and the chemotherapy made her sickly. She was still kind. She still played board games and baked cookies if Rosie ever came over.
But right now, Rosie wasn't thinking about Lucille. "Do you remember stuff about Fraser, too?" she asked, her eyes wide and watery.
"Yeah. I remember lots about him. Why?" Negan asked.
"I remember less 'bout him than I used to," Rosie admitted quietly, trying not to let herself cry again. She wiped her eyes again, bowing her head and looking at her shoes. "I miss him," she whispered, chewing on her lip.
It was silent for a good thirty-to-forty-five seconds as Negan thought through her words. "Rosie..." he said carefully, his eyebrows furrowed. He held onto one of the bars, trying to see her face, but Rosie turned away. "You're not thinkin' what I think you are," he said.
"I just-" Rosie finally started to really cry, "I just miss him. And I'm sick a' feelin' like this."
Negan looked to the wall to the small hook that the keys to the cell were kept on. He was about to ask her to grab them and unlock the cell, but then he noticed that they weren't there. The keys were already in Rosie's hand. He took them from her and Rosie turned even more, hiding her face with her hands.
Once he got the cell door open, Negan grabbed Rosie's shoulders and pulled her towards his chest. She broke down even more, squeezing her eyes shut and letting herself cry. "Kid, you can't be thinking like that. Not with how many people you got who love you," he said.
"Feels like it's my fault, what happened to... to..." Rosie couldn't finish her sentence. She could only cry harder.
"It's not," Negan insisted.
"Margo thinks it is. Gage, too. I didn't- I didn't help 'em."
"I thought we agreed on hating those assholes. They can't tell their elbows from their asses," Negan said, finally getting a tiny, sad laugh out of Rosie. He put his hand on the back of her head, holding her closer. "Your brother's still gonna be there when it's your time. But it's not your time yet, kid."
"Ok," Rosie whispered.
"Ok," Negan agreed.
And they stayed there, quiet and calm, for just a little while.
But that calm was soon interrupted by loud, pained crying coming from outside. Both Rosie and Negan pulled away from each other, their heads turning to the window. Then, they looked back at each other.
"That's Lydia," Rosie said, her eyes wide.
Within an instant, Negan brushed past her and rushed out of the building, Rosie following quickly after him. They followed the sounds of Lydia's crying, and as they got closer, they began hearing Margo's voice. Margo was who they saw first. She had her stick raised, just about to send it down into Lydia's stomach, but before she could, Negan grabbed her and threw her to the side.
While Negan shoved the other two away, Rosie went straight to Lydia, who was lying in the grass, crying. She was curled up in a fetal position, blood dripping from her mouth. Rosie knelt down beside her and Lydia instantly grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight.
"It's- it's-" Rosie found herself wanting to whisper out the words it's ok, but it wasn't ok. None of this was ok. Lydia was just a kid, and she was bleeding in the dirt after being attacked by grown adults, all because of who gave birth to her. So, "It's over. It's over," was the only thing Rosie could think to say.
"We were just trying to scare her," Gage whispered in a shaky voice. Rosie wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and go away, but yelling and swearing wouldn't bring Lydia any more comfort, so she just glared at Gage and rubbed her hand over Lydia's back.
"Yo, Negan! What the hell's going on back here?" Brandon- the guard who was assigned to watch after Negan- shouted. He appeared from behind some sheets just as Rosie got the chance to glance up at Negan.
Negan was staring at Margo, who he had thrown against the wall.
"Holy shit. Margo. Margo," Alfred- the third attacker- said, rushing towards the woman. Blood poured from her head. She was slumped up against the wall. She was dead. Negan had killed her.
Rosie's eyes widened. She looked at Negan, and he looked back at her with eyes just as wide as hers. "Shit," he breathed out as the realization washed over him. Alexandria wasn't just going to let this slide.
Soon enough, Brandon went to go and alert the others of what happened. Rosie stayed by Lydia's side, trying to keep her calm as everyone stared and judged her, and Daryl was soon beside them both. Negan stood off to the side in defeat.
"You freak! This is your fault!" Gage shouted, glaring down at Lydia. Aaron grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back, and Lydia squeezed Rosie's hand even tighter.
"Shut the hell up!" Rosie shouted back at him. It was not Lydia's fault. It wasn't Negan's either. Margo made the choice to attack an innocent kid, and she got herself killed. It was no one's fault but her own.
"It was Negan! Negan killed her!" Alfred announced to everyone.
"No, he didn't do anything wrong! No, it wasn't him! He didn't do anything," Lydia cried desperately. Negan was the one to protect her, and now he was going to be punished for it. He helped her, maybe even saved her life, and he was going to be punished.
"Get him out of here!" Daryl shouted, gesturing angrily toward Negan.
"No, please! He didn't do anything wrong!" Lydia begged.
"Move!" Daryl yelled once more. Lydia continued to cry, and he turned back to her. "I know, I know, I know, I know," he said quickly and quietly, in that soft, comforting voice he only used on occasion.
"No, please! Please!" Lydia sobbed as Brandon began taking Negan back to his cell.
Everyone watched and stared and whispered their little comments to each other, and Rosie wished they'd all just go away and mind their own business. This was already overwhelming enough. They didn't need twenty extra people there to be watching like it was quality entertainment. Not to mention that the crying and the whispering and the pang of hurt in Rosie's chest only reminded her of that goddamn barn.
"It's ok. It's ok," Daryl said in a rush, helping Lydia get up off of the ground. Lydia still held on tightly to Rosie's hand, and Rosie didn't mind at all. As Daryl helped her walk, Rosie held her hand tight, and they all made their way to the infirmary.
As Dante guided Lydia over to sit on a cot, Rosie went with her, sticking by her side as she curled up with her knees to her chest. Dante placed an ice pack between Lydia's arm and her ribs before walking off to talk to Daryl.
"They're idiots. They don't know their asses from their elbows," Rosie told Lydia. She honestly wasn't even 100% sure she knew what that phrase meant, but she assumed it meant they were stupid. Lydia didn't give any response. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone if ya want," Rosie offered.
That seemed to break Lydia out of her silent trance. She looked at Rosie. "No. Please... please stay," she said, somewhat desperate.
Rosie nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay," she assured her.
Daryl walked up next, tapping his hand against the cot. He wasn't sure what to say to either of the girls. Rosie avoided eye contact with him, feeling guilty about what she said. Daryl, though, was feeling guilty about what he said to Lydia. He had just told her a little bit ago to try and avoid Gage, Alfred, and Margo. And that obviously didn't go over well.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you," Daryl said carefully and quietly. Lydia didn't give a response. She stared straight forward. Daryl looked to Rosie, and Rosie set aside her guilt for now. The two Dixons shared a worried look. Daryl gently nudged Lydia's shoulder. "Lydia," he said.
It was silent for a moment longer before Lydia broke that silence with the words, "He was so sweaty."
What?
"Never liked deodorant. Said it made his armpits itchy. So I got used to it. Sometimes he smelled like garlic and onions," Lydia continued with a sad, but reminiscent smile on her face. "I miss him."
"Who's that?" Daryl asked.
"My dad," Lydia answered. Her smile faded away, and she cried harder, but she tried to keep her composure. It was a painful sight to see. It made Rosie's stomach hurt. "My dad would've protected me," Lydia said.
As Rosie looked down at her shoes, Daryl sighed solemnly and sat down next to Lydia. "Tell me what happened," he said, placing his hand on Lydia's back.
Lydia looked up from the ground, making eye contact as she spoke. "Negan saved my life," she insisted. And it was true. Daryl looked at Rosie, silently asking for her word on the matter, and she nodded. Yes, Negan saved her life.
Daryl wrapped his arm around Lydia's back, rubbing his hand up and down on her shoulder comfortingly. Lydia leaned into Daryl's side and squeezed Rosie's hand. Rosie rubbed her thumb over the back of Lydia's hand as she cried.
That night, Negan might have saved two lives.