Irresistible Danger

The Aftermath

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.