You moved around the kitchen, as if on autopilot, chopping up vegetables here and stirring pots of boiling water there. Your body knew what to do, what to grab and how to grip the knife, how to hold the spoon and make a circular stirring motion. The physical motions were happening, but your mind...your mind was elsewhere. Your thoughts were like an old record stuck on a playback loop, the events of the last week repeating over and over in your brain.
It had been six days since the confrontation out in the garden, but it felt as though it had happened just yesterday. You had barely made it back to your room that night before the waterworks started. Shutting the door, you had collapsed against it, great heavy sobs wracking your body as you slid down the wood and joined your subconscious in a heap on the floor. You hadn't even been able to convince yourself that what Negan had said didn't matter, because you knew that would be a big, fat lie. His words had sliced through you like knives, and the burning wounds were deep, hurting so badly that you had cried for hours before finally crawling into bed and falling asleep...only to wake up puffy-eyed and feeling no better the next morning. It had been all you could do to drag yourself out of bed that next day. And it had taken all of your energy to throw on clothes and a blank, emotionless mask, in hopes that no one would notice that your insides were diced up chunks of what used to be a whole and functioning human being. You went about your duties mechanically, with about as much awareness and vitality as one of the animated corpses roaming the woods outside.
Of course, Ben had noticed that something was off right away, but you had mumbled an excuse about not feeling well, and thankfully, he had let it go. Perhaps, he thought you were still dealing with the aftermath of witnessing Harry's punishment. And, in a way, he was right. Except it wasn't so much Harry's punishment that made you want to curl up in a ball under the bed sheets and never move again. It was the harsh words that had come afterwards.
You are a mother fucking puppet that I utilize for my own fucking entertainment, and that is all.
You winced as the words seemed to echo in your head for the thousandth time since that night. Shifting over to the sink, you dumped a pot of water and noodles into a strainer, barely aware as drops of the scalding liquid hit your hands and arms as it splashed into the sink. What was a little physical pain, when compared to the agony of emotional turmoil? Hell, you were pretty sure that you could receive a hot iron treatment like Harry's, and still not really feel it. Or better yet, maybe it would actually distract you from the pain of your thoughts, and shut down your brain for just one god damn minute. Perhaps, then, you could have some relief from the feelings of hurt and betrayal that had crawled under your skin and taken root, like some poisonous seed.
Even sleep didn't give you a reprieve. Instead, you had had more dreams in the past six nights than the rest of the month combined. They were all vivid, too, and etched into your mind. Not the kind of dream that you woke up from all upset, only to realize that seconds later you had forgotten what it had even been about, a hazy fog already replacing the memory of it. No, these were the kind of dreams that you remembered, that stuck in your head and wouldn't let go. Just this morning, you had woken up in a cold sweat from a dream that was so realistic, so real...
You were back up against that tree, the one beside the cluster of hawthorn bushes out in the woods. Thighs wrapped tightly around denim-clad hips, and stubble chafed the sensitive skin of your throat, as Negan pressed you up against the rough bark and sucked possessive marks into your skin, growling that you were his.
But then, just like that, Negan was gone, and in his place was Harry. His raw, melted face was right in front of yours, and you screamed while pushing him away. You stumbled across the grass and to the other side of the bushes, in an attempt to put some distance between yourself and that horrible sight. But when you looked back, you saw that Harry was now gone, and that Negan had returned. In his hand was the iron, steam rising from it to showcase that it was still hot. Little bits and pieces of burnt flesh clung to the metal, some dripping off to fall onto the ground as Negan advanced towards you, that sadistic grin on his face.
You begged him to stop, and tried to back up in retreat, but found that you were frozen to the spot. You knelt down in the grass, hands coming up to cover your face in a pathetic attempt to both shut him out and keep the iron away. Negan's voice drifted down to you, his tone both commanding and appallingly gleeful.
"Sweetheart, lay your fucking eyes on this!"
When you continued to huddle in the grass, his tone became harsher as he demanded, "I said, take a damn look!"
Trembling, you peeked up over the tips of your fingers, and saw that Negan's face looked so disproportionate that it appeared almost cartoonish. His smile was stretched obscenely wide, like a clown's, and his eyes were so bright that they appeared to be glowing.
"What's the matter, doll? Was the joke that bad?" he cackled, raising the iron in front of him.
"Now I hope, for your own fucking sake, that you get it now. That you understand how the fuck things work around here. But in case you still don't fucking get it, well.."
And with that, he brought his arm down swiftly, the hot metal of the iron descending on you, almost as if in slow motion. You screamed as it connected with the left side of your face and...
And then you had woken up. Your t-shirt had been drenched with sweat, heart pounding as your hands flew to your face, assessing for damage that wasn't there. And it wasn't until you had frantically scanned your bedroom multiple times that you were finally assured that Negan wasn't actually in the room with you.
Hell, he hadn't even so much as spoken one word to you in almost a week.
You hadn't seen him for the first few days after the confrontation. In fact, your first glimpse of him was in the middle of the afternoon, three days after that night. You had been walking back from the commissary, and had just exited the staircase and turned a corner, when you saw his broad back at the other end of the hall, walking away from you. He was being followed by a small group of Saviors, but he stood out among them. His big, leather-coated shoulders and the gleaming points on Lucille showcased his power and authority, even from a distance. You had stood there, still and quiet as a mouse, breath stuck in your throat until he had reached the end of the hall and turned the corner. Only then, had you been able to push your feet into motion, turning around and fleeing back the way you had come, cursing angrily at yourself when you felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes.
But if you thought that near-interaction had been bad....well, it was nothing compared to your second encounter with Negan, which had occurred that very morning.
You had been outside for the first time since that night in the gardens, sitting at your usual picnic table and trying to quiet your mind after the horrific dream you had woken up from that morning. You had been attempting to read one of the books you had recently bought from commissary with your points. Of course, concentrating had been impossible, and instead your eyes kept glancing around the side of the compound that led to the gardens. Images of Negan standing there between the rows of vegetables had flashed through your mind, while his harsh words repeated over and over in your head, until finally you had given up and headed back inside.
It was right as you were reaching out a hand towards the front door of the compound, that the heavy metal frame opened all on its own. And there, on the other side, stood Negan.
He had seen you standing there and stopped, as if surprised. Those beautiful, tawny eyes had locked onto yours, both of you holding the others gaze silently, as if looking at one another from a divide way larger than just a doorway. You both stood frozen, his expression unreadable and eyes glazed, as if someone had pulled the blinds down over them, hiding any hint of emotion. It had to have only lasted for a second or two, before he flickered his gaze up and away, effectively dismissing you. You had then darted past him, eyes firmly fixed on the ground, and hadn't dared to look up again until you were safely back inside your bedroom. You weren't sure what had hurt more: the fact that he hadn't said anything to acknowledge you, or the fact that he had looked at you with zero emotion in his face, as if you didn't matter...as if you were nobody...
The sound of someone repeatedly saying your name interrupted your whirling thoughts, and you refocused your attention to the present, the strainer of noodles still sitting in the sink. Realizing that you had been standing there, silent and still, for who knows how long, you jerked your gaze up and to the right. Ben was standing beside you with a look of concern on his face. Behind him, a few other staff members were also watching you with obvious confusion and worry.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" you tried to ask nonchalantly, while mentally kicking yourself for letting thoughts of Negan so thoroughly distract you.
"I asked if you needed help with the noodles."
"Oh...no, I'm good," you replied, but even you could hear how emotionless that response sounded.
You were vaguely aware of Ben shooing the other workers back to their tasks, while you went back to the stove for the next pot of boiling water. A gentle hand on your arm stopped you from picking up another pot.
"Boss, I think maybe you should call it a day and go rest," Ben gently suggested.
"I said, I'm good," you replied tartly, wanting to be irritated that he wouldn't let you alone, but also unable to summon the energy to feel anything except numb.
You saw a look of determination cross his face, and his tone became more firm as he quietly said, "You're not good, so quit trying to act like you are. I don't know what's wrong, but if and when you're ready to talk, I'll be here to listen. However, you're freaking out the staff with how quiet and spaced out you've been the past week. And unless you want me to report you to medical, I want you to call it a day and go rest."
You knew that he was right, that you were even more zoned out today, after your encounter with Negan this morning. Just when you had started to feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try and act somewhat normal...that perhaps you were starting to recover...you had run into him. Seeing him at the front door of the compound and the look of dismissal in his gaze, had caused what minimal emotional progress you had made over the past six days to be kicked back to the starting line.
It felt like all you had done during dinner this week was reassure Ben that you were fine, even though you obviously weren't. You had tried being cold to him, icing him out, but he hadn't budged. You had also tried being abrupt and rude, ordering him to stop bothering you, but that hadn't worked either. Ben had been a constant companion at your side during dinner this week, always looking over his shoulder to check on you and trying to get you to talk, to no avail. You felt bad for the way you were treating him, and it wasn't like you really didn't want to talk to him. You had actually considered it at one point a few mornings ago, the possibility of spilling everything to Ben. But then, when you had walked into the kitchen and saw him, the words died in your throat. How the hell were you supposed to even explain the last few weeks, let alone how you felt now? And what could Ben possibly tell you, that you hadn't already told yourself? You were the idiot who had allowed yourself to start liking Negan, who had mistakenly let emotions develop for a man who was violent and brutal and feared by everyone in the compound. What could Ben say in response to that, except, "You should've known better?"
Nodding in concession, you whispered, "Alright."
"Alright?" Ben parroted. He looked surprised that you were admitting defeat so easily.
"You're right, I need some rest. I trust you can take it from here?" you said blankly.
"Of course. I'll have someone send up a tray for you..."
"No need," you interrupted him. "I'm not hungry."
Truth be told, you hadn't eaten much of anything except a few bites here and there for the last six days. You tried to eat in front of the staff when you all gathered for dinner, after the diners had left. But instead, you had mostly just pushed your food around in your bowl and pretended to eat, hoping no one would notice.
Ben didn't respond, and you didn't want to see the look of concern on his face any longer, so you turned and exited the kitchen without another word.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was still fairly early when you got back to your room, the wall clock showcasing that the time was about 4:15pm. You hadn't worn the watch Negan got you...in fact, it and his copy of The Scarlet Letter had been thrown in the drawer of your bedside table. Unfortunately, out of sight had not meant out of mind, but you still couldn't bring yourself to wear the watch. Not when he had made it so clear that giving it to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.
Sitting on your bed, you stared off into space, your brain completely exhausted, yet, still unable to shut down the constant racing thoughts and images of Negan from that night. You had spent so much time in here over the past six days, just sitting and thinking, that the room felt almost claustrophobic. You just needed a god damn break from everything, needed to get out and have some space. It was too bad that you couldn't go out in the woods and spend some time away from The Sanctuary. You thought of the third outing Negan had promised you, and how unlikely it was that it would ever happen.
But what if...no....you couldn't...could you?
Your brain had thrown an idea at you, one that might possibly be incredibly stupid, and even dangerous. What if you just went on the third outing by yourself?
Your subconscious, which had spent most of its time silent and hiding in the corner, lifted its head in curiosity. It started nodding slowly in approval of the brain's idea, and added its own commentary to your thoughts. Just pack a bag, right now, and go out there. Spend the evening hiking around, maybe even spend the whole night out there, just like old times...just like how it was before you ever knew Negan existed.
You were unable to fight both your brain and your subconscious, not when the idea was appealing on so many levels. The woods were somewhere that you could feel able to breathe again, able to clear your head. And it wouldn't be that hard for you to survive out there for a few hours, or even for an entire night. Hell, you'd done it before, for weeks at a time. Granted, Maria and Tim had been with you last time, but you knew what to do. You knew how to survive on your own, and you didn't need anyone, especially not Negan, to protect you. And maybe an evening outside the compound, back in touch with nature and away from an environment that included Negan, would help put you back on track. Could help you push a metaphorical reset button on your emotions.
Mind made up, you walked across the room and grabbed a ragged brown sack from the depths of one of the wooden crates. It was the sack you had used before living here, and you hadn't even looked at it since arriving at the compound two months ago. Now, you started stuffing essentials into it: an extra shirt, a few band aids and a roll of gauze, some granola bars, and a few bottles of water. You also grabbed the flashlight that you had bought from commissary a while ago, shaking the batteries and flicking the switch to check that it was still working, which it was. Walking over to the bed, you started to reach for Ricardo, who was propped up against the wall. However, you paused instead, looking over at the bedside table before glancing down at your mattress.
Not sure why you did it, but feeling compelled anyways, you reached down and lifted the mattress, sliding a hand underneath and wrapping your fingers on the little slip of paper that was still under there. You unfolded the slip, instant tears filling your eyes at the sight of the elegant, bold handwriting scrawled across it.
Now you can't say that I don't know how to be nice
You sat down on the bed abruptly, staring at the paper and reading the words over and over again. God, had it really only been a few weeks ago that he had written you this note? That he had given you the first real glimpse of the man underneath all the anger and gruff exterior. Where had that man gone? Had he ever even existed in the first place...or had it all been for show?
Opening the bedside table drawer, you lifted out the purple sports watch and the copy of The Scarlett Letter, and then grabbed a pen that was lying in the bottom of the drawer. Flipping over the scrap of paper, you hesitated, before firmly putting the pen to it and writing a note of your own on the back.
I don't need this, or you, anymore
You weren't totally sure why you had written the words, but it was almost cathartic to put it down onto paper. Whether or not you believed the words was another matter entirely. But perhaps, if you wrote it down, it would be more real...would start to sink in.
Part of you was tempted to go up to Negan's room and leave the watch and book on the floor outside his door, but the possibility of someone seeing you was a deterrent. And what if you ran into Negan again? No, you weren't ready for that. Instead, you placed the two items back inside the bedside table drawer, and this time laid the slip of paper on top. Your message was facing upwards, as a reminder to yourself, the next time you opened the drawer.
Realizing that you had wasted more than enough time focusing on the past, you stood up, hiked the brown sack over your shoulder, grabbed Ricardo, and headed out the door. Your brain plodded along beside you, anxious for the chance to focus on something that didn't involve Negan. Meanwhile, your subconscious trailed a few steps behind, still dejected, but also looking more animated and hopeful than it had all week.