[ iii. i hate happy endings ]

october 28th, 2012

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WHEN RICK GRIMES RETURNED from the depths of the RV nearly two hours later, the lineup before him remained unchanged, frozen in a wasteland of death. Dawn had broken quietly overhead, casting a pale light upon Astrid, Bailey, Daryl, and the others still forced to kneel in the gravel. Blood from their slaughtered loved ones still stained their skin. The mutilated bodies of Glenn and Abraham still lay untouched.

The redheaded soldier's corpse beside Astrid had begun to smell, the man's head bashed in beyond all recognition. Maggie, on Abraham's other side, did not seem to notice. Her swollen eyes were still locked on the broken form of her husband. She wept silently, her tears unending. Astrid could sense her torment, recognized an honest pain there that carved deeper than purely the loss of Glenn. Maggie was still sick, her tiny body contorted, no longer even able to remain on her knees.

Astrid had to look away, back to where Bailey knelt. The young girl's gaze was distant, her narrow face drained of color. Only the faint rise and fall of her chest betrayed her continued existence. Daryl, too, looked all but extinguished now. Over the top of their girl's head, he stared at Astrid, his own expression a ghostly mask smeared with blood. Devoid of life.

"Here we are."

Negan's deep, raspy voice pulled at the edges of the clearing's relative silence, dragging Astrid from her heartbreak. The leader of the Saviors had yanked Rick from the RV and, as he had done before, hurled him before the lineup. Now, Rick appeared frail and worn, and the sight forced conflicting emotions on Astrid. Anger still simmered, yet a flicker of concern for his well-being had begun to blossom deep in her emptied chest. While she could barely look at him, she also could not look away. He had dragged them into this mess with the Saviors. It was his job to drag them out of it.

"Let me ask you something, Rick. Do you even know what that little trip was about?" Negan prodded.

When Rick failed to respond right away, the leather-jacketed Savior's displeasure grew.

"Speak when you're fucking spoken to."

Rick's breaths seemed to catch in his own throat. "O-Okay," He stammered.

"That trip was about the way you looked at me. I wanted to change that. I wanted you to understand. But you're still looking at me the same fucking way," Negan noted, frustrated. "Like I shit in your scrambled eggs, and that's just not going to work! So . . . Do I give you another chance?"

"Y-Yeah," Rick rushed outward. His nod turned frantic, all the while he now struggled to hold Negan's dark stare. His fingers curled as they grasped at the gravel beneath him. "Yes."

Negan smiled broadly, showing teeth. "Okay, all right. And here it is—the grand prize game." With a hearty slap on Rick's back, he rose from his crouch before the man. "What you do next will decide whether your shit day becomes everyone's last shit day or just another shit day." He glanced at his many Saviors that still lined the clearing, and then motioned toward the lineup. "Get some fucking guns to the back of their heads."

Astrid's dulled, numbed senses sharpened as she detected the approaching footsteps behind her. Soon, she felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the back of her head. Glancing over carefully, she saw Daryl and Bailey with similar weapons pressed to the back of their heads. Within moments, the circle of Saviors closed around the entirety of the lineup, and they were all at the mercy of Negan's newest, sadistic game.

"Level with their noses," Negan added coyly. "So if you have to fire, it'll be a real fucking mess."

The command was obeyed mechanically, and Astrid felt the muzzle shift until it rested between her ears. One wrong move, one twitch of a finger, and she would be dead. So would her son.

Astrid watched silently, rigid as a board, as Negan's grin morphed into something darker while he surveyed his long line of captives. Eventually, his stare settled on one of their own in particular. "Kid, right here," He barked, pointing a finger toward Carl Grimes. When the boy hesitated, a shadow crossed Negan's face, his tone sharpening to a dangerous edge. "Kid. Now."

Carl rose slowly, stiffly to his feet. It was the only defiance he could relay. As he stepped closer, the leader of the Savior casually undid his belt. "You a southpaw?" He inquired.

The teenager's retort was sharp. "Am I a what?"

"You a lefty?" Negan clarified with a roll of his eyes.

"No."

"Good."

Negan began to wind the belt around Carl's bicep. He cinched it tight against the boy's flesh. "That hurt?" He asked.

"No," Carl shot back, his jaw set.

"It should . . . It's fucking supposed to," Negan admitted, his amusement evident in every word. Satisfied with his handiwork, he placed a hand between Carl's shoulder blades and pushed downward. "All right. Get down on the ground, kid, right next to Daddy. Spread them wings!" With a dramatic flourish, he snatched Carl's sheriff's hat from his head and tossed it aside. "Simon, you got a pen?" He called out.

Once Negan was handed the pen, he crouched beside Carl who now laid flat on his stomach on the gravel. He rolled up the boy's shirt sleeve, revealing the vulnerable expanse of unmarred, white skin. Undoing the cap, Negan drew a thick, black line across Carl's forearm. The startled gasp that escaped Astrid's lips echoed through the tense silence as realization hit her.

Rick quickly suspected the same. Before Astrid could even muster a protest to save Carl's arm, his father was already doing so. "Please," He pleaded softly. "Please, don't."

"Me?" Negan mocked. "I ain't doing shit."

He reached into his waistband and produced Rick's hatchet. The weapon dropped with a heavy thud between the father and son.

"Now, Rick," the leader of the Saviors began, "I want you to take your ax and cut your son's left arm off, right on that fucking line. I know. You're going to have to process that for a second. That makes sense. Still, though, I'm going to need you to do it, or all these people," he motioned briefly to where Astrid and Daryl, and Maggie, and Rosita knelt, "are going to die. Then Carl dies, then the people back home die, and then you, eventually. I'm going to keep you breathing for a few fucking years—just so you can stew on it."

"You don't have to do this!"

It was Michonne who had suddenly dared to speak. It was the first time Astrid had heard her speak all night.

"We understand . . ." The Hawthorne woman cried desperately. "We understand!"

"You understand," Negan corrected her with a sneer. "But I'm not sure that Rick does."

Astrid's protective instincts flared forth next. Because she would always, always protect Carl. Since Atlanta, they had suffered through the harshest, bitterest pains of their lives together. He had been her rock after the collapse of the prison, had quite literally picked her up off deadened feet in its courtyard, and carried her to safety. Likewise, she had nursed him back from the brink when he lost his eye, had cradled his life in her very hands. He did not deserve to suffer further now, to lose another viable piece of himself—especially at the hands of his own father.

"He's just a child!" She blurted.

"He is just a child," Negan repeated, his smile as cold as ice. "And so is that little girl of yours . . . Would you like her to join him up front?"

"No!" Daryl growled, leaning forward on his knees. He looked like an animal prepared to pounce.

Negan chuckled dryly. "My, my, have we got a pair of feisty parents here," He snickered. "But you both need to sit your asses down. One more fucking outburst, one more fucking sound, and your little fairy tale family will come crashing down, too. Mark my fucking words."

Astrid was forced to swallow her protests. But they rattled in her deflated lungs, searing to still be heard. It took all her strength left to contain her whimpers as she rocked back on her aching knees.

"So, Rick," Negan turned back to his task, "I'm going to need a clean cut right there on that line. Now, I know this is a screwed-up thing to ask, but it's going to have to be like a salami slice. Nothing messy, clean, forty-five-fucking-degrees. Give us something to fold over. We've got a great doctor. The kid will be fine . . . Probably."

When Rick remained silent, entirely unengaged, the leader of the Savior's patience wore thin once again. "This needs to happen right fucking now," He urged. "Or I will crush the little fella's skull myself."

"I-It can be me," Rick's voice quivered, offering himself for the ax. "Y-You can do it to me . . . I c-can—I can go with you."

"No, this is the only way," Negan's declaration was final. "Pick up the fucking ax, Rick. Not making a decision is a big fucking decision. Do you really want to see all these people die? Because you will. You will see every ugly fucking thing . . . Are you going to make me count?" With no response from the father again, Negan's frustration boiled over completely. "Oh, my fucking God. Okay. You win. I am counting! Three—"

"Please!" Rick interrupted loudly. Almost blindly. His hunched body began to wrack violently with sobs as he pleaded for his only son's life. "It can be me! Please! Please!"

Negan ignored him. "Two . . ." He continued.

Astrid's heart twisted as she watched Rick's desperation unfold. He swayed on his knees like a broken man. Soon, tears and snot cascaded down his cheeks like a little child. "Please, don't do this!" He begged, only to be met with a brutal slap across the face from Negan. "Please!"

"One . . ."

"Dad."

Carl Grimes was surprisingly calm when he spoke. Somehow, that only hurt Astrid Dixon more. Her boy was about to lose his arm and there was absolutely nothing she could do to save him.

"Dad," The teenager repeated, looking only toward his weeping father. "Just do it," He urged, acceptance lacing his words. "Just do it . . ."

Astrid's heart pounded in her chest. She found herself incapable of looking away.

Rick's hand trembled as he reached for the ax, his fingers curling around the handle. Carl, his own flesh and blood, flinched at the sight. With a single eye clenched shut, the fourteen-year-old awaited the painful blow that would forever alter his young life.

But before Rick could bring the ax down, cruel laughter spilled from Negan's lips, and he quickly wrested the ax from the man's grasp entirely.

The leader of the Saviors had finally seen what he needed to see from the leader of Alexandria.

"Rick, Rick, Rick, you answer to me . . . You provide for me . . . You belong to me . . . Right?" Negan's harsh glare burned into the shattered remnants of Rick Grimes. "Speak when you're fucking spoken to!" He demanded.

Rick's voice choked with fear and defeat as he struggled to utter any coherent words. His tearful gaze, torn between his son and the merciless man before him, was forcibly yanked upwards as Negan seized his chin.

"P-Pro-Provide for you," He eventually stammered.

"You belong to me, right?"

"Right."

Astrid's shoulders caved where she knelt. It felt as though Rick had bartered away her very soul to the devil himself, consigning her to a fate of servitude and suffering beneath the Saviors' boots. Because of Rick's arrogance, his cowardliness, she and her family were no longer masters of their own lives, but mere pawns in Negan's twisted games of power and control.

Negan was grinning proudly. "Right," He repeated. "That is the look I wanted to see. We did it . . . All of us, together . . . Even the dead guys on the ground. Hell, they get the fucking spirit award for sure! Today was a productive damn day! Now, I hope for all their sake that you get it now. That you understand how things work. Things have changed. Whatever you had going for you . . . that's over now."

The leader of the Saviors stepped away from the cowering Rick and repositioned himself before the entirety of the lineup. Broken, bloodshot eyes stared back as he surveyed them openly, as if sizing up offers on a market. Then, one caught their attention all over again.

"Dwight." Negan beckoned toward the scarred Savior. "Load him up. He's mine now."

His black eyes had locked onto Daryl with possessive intent.

Before Astrid could fully comprehend, Dwight nodded once, turned rapidly where he stood, approached her unsuspecting husband, and then forcibly hauled him to his feet. Fresh blood dripped into puddles as Daryl's scabbed shoulder wound reopened. Panic seized Astrid's heart upon hearing his blatant yelp of pain, driving her to lunge forward, hands and knees scrabbling on the gravel.

"No!" She cried out. "Don't take him!"

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. She hurried to her feet, swaying. She had to get to him.

Then, another unnamed, unfeeling Savior sidestepped Astrid's path and drove the butt of his long rifle into her swelling stomach. The brutal blow sent her sprawling back to the ground, both tears and whiteness blurring her vision as she watched helplessly from the middle of the dry clearing.

"No!" Daryl snarled ferociously as he struggled, even through a dying daze, to get back to her. But his strength was no match. He was quickly overwhelmed by Saviors who went to aid Dwight. Within moments, Daryl was being tossed into the van from earlier, the doors sealing him in.

Astrid clutched her mouth. A gut-wrenching, strangled wail escaped her.

She was not even given a single moment to consider—to realize—that would be the last time she saw her husband before a disapproving tsk sounded above her.

Still curled on her side, Astrid looked up to find Negan's imposing figure casting a shadow over her. His disappointment was clear as he addressed her with a newfound, cold detachment. "You just don't learn, do you?" He remarked.

"P-Please," Astrid whimpered. She could not take anymore. "Just leave us alone."

A cruel smirk played at the corners of Negan's lips as he shook his head. "I wish I could. But you've left me no choice," He muttered. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but rules are rules. And you know what they say. Well, it's actually what I say . . . I hate happy endings." His attention shifted towards his right-hand man behind him. With a flick of his finger, he summoned, "Simon."

It was not a calling. It was a command.

Without uttering a word, Simon strode forward. With the ease of someone who had carried out such deeds countless times before, he drew his pistol from his belt, ensuring a bullet was primed in the chamber. Then, he turned slightly and positioned himself in line with the young girl now kneeling alone behind Astrid. Bailey Stratton, only twelve years old, stared back at him, terror etched in her wide eyes.

"No!" Astrid shouted as she rose frantically to her knees again. "Please, there's no need for this! Please! No, don't—"

Her begging was cut short by the deafening crack of the gunshot.

A scream tore from Astrid's throat.

Hot blood stained her vision as a singular bullet ripped through Bailey's narrow torso. With no one to catch her, she went crashing backward into the gravel. The surrounding lineup began to yelp and cry with shock.

"No, no, no!" Astrid sputtered. She scrambled to Bailey's side, and quickly collected the small, bleeding body in her arms. Bailey's breath came in ragged gasps as her arms moved rapidly, panicked and searching. "You're okay, Bailey, you're okay," Astrid whispered in a tight voice. "I'm right here. Move your hand."

With one arm wrapped securely around Bailey's trembling shoulders, scooping her into her lap, Astrid used her free hand to press against the gaping wound in her chest. The blood was already pooling around them, so thick Astrid could not make sense of the injury. Only that it was very bad.

Tears streamed down Bailey's cheeks as she looked up at Astrid, her brown eyes blown wide with pain. "It—It hurts," She whimpered.

"I know, I know." The frantic words tumbled out. "But it's going to be all right. I just need you to hold on. I'll fix this, I promise."

But Astrid knew the hollow echo of her promise. There would be no fixing Bailey. Blood flowed unchecked from her chest, each raspy breath a struggle against suffocation. With each careful press of Astrid's hand upon Bailey's abdomen, her tiny screams only grew louder, shredding through the veil of the dawn.

"Don't!" Bailey cried. "Don't touch it, don't touch it—"

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," Astrid crackled out. "I know it hurts. I have to do this."

"Astrid, please—"

"I know. I know. I know."

"Don't—don't leave—"

"I'm right here."

"I'm scared. I don't want—to die—"

"No, no, no. You're not going to die. You're going to be just fine."

Bailey's teary gaze was wild, trying to fix steadily upon Astrid, her small chest heaving greatly in desperation, in defiance, as she fought for each precious breath. Frantically nodding, she attempted to articulate thousands of words at once—words that would forever remain trapped within her, that she would never get to say.

"Take—Take care of . . . the—the baby," She gasped out.

Astrid wept louder. "I'm going to take care of you, too."

They might have been alone in that clearing now. The Dixon mother was oblivious to the world around her. She was ensnared in a universe that revolved solely around Bailey. The little girl she had met months ago at the prison and had since taken under her wing. The little girl who had woven her way into Astrid's fearful heart. The little girl who had become her little girl.

Her little girl was going to die.

Blood had begun to trickle delicately from the corner of Bailey's pale lips. "I can—I can see him," She murmured. Her voice was as gritty as the gravel beneath them. "I can see—Finn."

Astrid reached up with a single red hand and gently wiped away a stilled tear from Bailey's round cheek as her eyes fluttered shut. She did not hesitate; there was only one thing to say, the only safe path to guide her child into the darkness.

"Go to him," Astrid encouraged. "He's waiting for you. Tell him . . . Tell him hi for me, okay?"

"I—will," Bailey promised breathlessly. Then, her once-warm brown eyes flickered open again, meeting Astrid's forest green in what they both knew would be the last time. "I love—I love you, Mom," She added softly.

Another pained, devastated yelp slipped from Astrid. Bailey had never called her that before. She had never dared to hope for it. She bundled Bailey tighter in her arms, cradling her. "I love you, too, baby."

Bailey huffed another startled, wet breath, then sharply exhaled. Her pale eyelids drifted shut again. Astrid pressed a final kiss to the young girl's temple and lingered there until, slowly and softly, like a butterfly ending its long flight home, Bailey's fluttering, torn-open chest fell and did not rise again.

Blinded by tears, Astrid now leaned forward fully and rested her forehead against her daughter's. In the stillness that followed, broken only by the sound of Astrid's anguished sobs, the world seemed to hold its breath. And then it cracked and wept, too.

Bailey Stratton was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

i am so sorry.