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The feeble girl sat at the edge of her bed, legs mounted on the wall, crossed. Despite how uncomfortable she was, she continued to lay upside down, with her head dangling off the bedside. In her hands she held a dilapidated, dusty poetry book that she'd received as a present on her eleventh birthday. She remembered opening it as a child, staring at it in sheer amazement but not being able to understand a single word of it. Now, as a twenty year old, she was so fascinated by the printed words on the yellowing pages that she barely recognized the numbness developing in her legs.
She laid undisturbed for days after the tragic demise of Abraham and Glenn. It had been almost a week. She had on a dimly lit bedside light, and only left the room if she needed food or water. Thankfully, she had a private bathroom. Beside her bed laid countless amounts of novels that she had already finished reading during her stay at Alexandria. Never getting to see Jesus, she forced herself to reread all of her old books. She was much too scared to leave the walls of Alexandria again, although the likiness of her running into Negan again was slim, she assumed her dad was already disappointed enough.
She had barely slept for the five days after the incident. She had bags under her bloodshot eyes and her whole body continued to shake, making it difficult to read the pages of her novel. Every night she found herself dozing off, only to be abruptly waken up by either dreams of that disturbance, or visions of Abraham and Glenn's battered heads on the dirt road.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the gory, brutal reality of what had happened. It was inescapable. So she kept her eyes wide open, fixated on poetry and things that made her feel relaxed. As relaxed as she could get, at least.
They had taken Daryl. She thought maybe if they hadn't taken him, he would be the only one she could talk to about what happened. He would forgive her for sneaking out of walls and running into Negan that morning. He wouldn't blame her for what happened. But he was gone, and she didn't even know if he was dead or alive anymore.
She decided to close her book, unable to focus anymore. She turned off her beside light and sat in complete darkness, the only source of light being the streams of the rising sun peaking through her curtains. She pressed her back to the wall, her legs hugging up against her chest. Her chin rested on her knee caps, fingers playing with her small toes. She turned to her record player and played an old, soft Elvis tune to try and take her mind off of things.
Suddenly there was a soft knock on the door. She didn't respond, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. The doorknob wiggled as she squirmed in her seat.
"Vada, honey, open up," It was her father. He had tried a couple days ago to visit, but Vada was much too shaken at that point to even look at anybody. She bit her lip, contemplating opening to door to let him in.
