[ vi. a world like this ]

november 1st, 2012

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FIVE DAYS HAD PASSED since Astrid Dixon's world had once again ended.

Each began the same. Awakening alone in a cold, unwelcoming bed, she stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed onto her scarred knees just in time to painfully retch her empty stomach's contents into the toilet. The exhausting routine had become all too familiar, her body obeying to terrifying, recurring nightmares. The scale she confronted every morning after revealed she had lost over ten pounds in mere days.

From there, she would drag herself to the sink, where the mirror revealed a stranger's reflection. Her body had become gaunt, a fleshy, bruised bump protruding from her otherwise skeletal frame. Chapped lips and bloodshot eyes, framed by deep, ink-black bags, stared back at her with a vacant sorrow. Her tears had long since dried up; there was nothing left to shed.

There was barely any oxygen even left to breathe.

Astrid exhaled shakily as she re-entered her shadowy bedroom, her dry gaze sweeping over the remains of a life that had unraveled beyond repair. Clothes lay scattered across the floor—hers and Daryl's—left in organized disarray as if there had once been every intention of putting them back where they belonged.

The notion that her husband might not ever wear them again was now too painful to consider. But packing them away seemed unthinkable to Astrid. Not when she had already put away their daughter's belongings.

The house now felt emptier in such an aftermath. In more ways than one.

Upon reaching Hilltop that first morning, Sasha and Maggie had stayed behind to bury their loved ones. Bailey's body was the only one who had been brought back to Alexandria. Her tiny tombstone now rested in Alexandria's growing cemetery. In mindless grief, Astrid had insisted over and over to Aaron on her resting place, unable to part with her in any other way. He had helped bury the child.

He had also helped carry Astrid back to the house that night, too, when her legs could no longer hold her upright.

In the slow days that followed, packing away the remnants of innocent lives was a traumatizing ordeal all its own. Glenn and Maggie's bedroom stood empty, as did the rooms once occupied by Sasha and Abraham. Even Bailey's once vibrant, childlike bedroom was now dark and still. Astrid had not dared to enter it again since that final departure with the last packed away box, unable to confront the ghosts it now harbored.

Yet her own room was no less a battleground. How could a sanctuary also be a chamber of torment?

Astrid lowered herself to her bedroom floor with a grimace, the sharp crack and ache of her joints echoing her every move. Finally free from the confines of her brace, her hand stretched out across the carpet until it found one of her hunter's flannel shirts. She clutched it to her chest, pressing her cheek against the soft, familiar fabric. The lingering, woodsy scent of him triggered a wrenching up her spine, nearly choking her again.

What if she never saw Daryl again? What would remain? Raising their son alone? Growing old without her partner?

She did not think she could do it.

But what other choice did she have?

Astrid exhaled shakily again. Rather than return the shirt to the floor as she had for days, Astrid now gently pulled it over her head. If she was to finally leave this house, she would not do so alone. She needed the comforting, invisible presence of her husband, even if he was now just a memory, unreachable and silent.

With the flannel sleeves dangling past her fingertips, Astrid left their bedroom. Each step down the stairs was more agonizingly silent than the last. When she reached the ground floor of the Alexandrian mansion, no one awaited her there. Not that she expected anyone to be.

The entire Safe Zone had transformed dramatically since the night of the lineup. The loss of so many had rendered the community eerily empty and quiet, as though hope itself had been snuffed out, too. After all, it had taken only minutes for the seeds of distrust in Rick Grimes to take root.

Astrid had simply been the first to sow them.

She had not exchanged a single word with Rick since she had left him battered in the gravel clearing where they had been abandoned by the Saviors. His face was still a mess of bruises and blackened flesh, though he was healing faster than she would have liked. Rick had not made any effort to reconcile—he likely knew it was pointless, wounds still too fresh—but they both maintained an unspoken agreement to steer clear of each other.

Yet, the aftershocks of his betrayal still rippled through every corner of Astrid's life. No home, no building was left untouched.

As she made her way onto the porch, down the street, and into the pantry, her eyes locked onto the neatly arranged cardboard boxes Rick had prepared for Negan's impending arrival set for the end of the week. The sight of them, so conspicuous, so easily surrendered, ignited a blaze of fresh anger within Astrid. The leader of the Saviors did not deserve their supplies. After the bloodshed Negan had caused, what he truly deserved was a bullet to the head, and she was more than willing to deliver it.

Astrid's fingers brushed against a bottle of alcohol as she stepped closer and began to rummage through one of the boxes. She stared at it, hating that her and Daryl's shared drunken laughter at the CDC surfaced within the depths of her mind unbidden. He still called her "Giggles", every now and then. Private only to them.

What Astrid would not give to return to those days, when life was genuinely simpler, even amidst the walkers. Back then, people were not nearly as dangerous as they were now. Their group's struggles had been purely with the dead, not each other. Now, daily life could not exist without the vigilance of watching over one another's backs.

How had they allowed themselves to fracture so completely? Why was this all that was left of humanity?

Such thoughts nearly overwhelmed Astrid. Her fingers abruptly shifted, poised to unscrew the cap. Mindlessly, she longed to lose herself so completely that the last thing she remembered was a time when the world had still made sense.

But that world no longer existed. And a sip of this poison could offer nothing more than temporary relief, a hollow comfort that came with the grave cost of endangering her unborn son—a price she could never, ever afford.

"Astrid?"

Rosita's voice cut through Astrid's reverie, immediate and piercing. Astrid did not immediately respond, letting the moments stretch as she felt the other woman's gaze searing into her back.

"I didn't drink any of it," She eventually said. Without turning around, she dropped the bottle back into the box with a flat clink. "See?" She waited, expecting Rosita's bitterness, her ridicule, to follow in the form of footsteps. It was not until she heard Rosita's breath escape in a heavy sigh that Astrid dared to glance over.

Rosita stood across the nearly empty pantry, alone. Her expression was tight, pale lips pressed into a stern line. "I wouldn't judge you if you did," She replied, her tone almost resigned. Then, she shrugged. "I mean, who wants to raise a kid in a world like this, right?"

A world like this. Their brand-new, sorry beginning. A world where days were no longer guaranteed, where even a stray glance or a misplaced word could mean a brutal execution. A world where Astrid's daughter had been ruthlessly gunned down and her husband wrenched away with the breaking of a blood-soaked dawn. This was the only world her son was destined to inherit.

He did not deserve this hell.

Astrid loathed herself more than ever for her failure to protect him, for not preventing this world from coming to pass. She knew she had not fought hard enough, and now she was condemned to watch everyone she loved fall away until she was left begging—sobbing—for her own end.

But right now, Astrid had no tears left to weep. She was numb, moving through the last five excruciatingly long days on autopilot. Her body breathed not out of desire, but necessity. She walked without a destination, driven by a nightmare that only forward motion could temporarily escape.

Astrid did not wish to speak to Rosita any longer as she turned sharply, leaving the alcohol and the pantry behind. She slipped out through the garage's open entrance and onto the street. Rosita might have called after her, might have even tried to follow, but Astrid did not look back, did not acknowledge the woman's presence again.

It was not until Astrid had crossed two streets and neared the edge of the western wall, closest to an immediate escape, that she finally registered the thunderous roar of approaching engines. Astrid froze on the sidewalk. Her hands automatically clenched into fists at her sides as her attention went toward the end of the block, to the locked gates of the Alexandria Safe Zone's main entrance. Eugene and Spencer Monroe, Deanna's sole surviving son, stood nearby, their faces filled with both dread and confusion.

As Astrid grew closer, soon came the unmistakable sound of a low-tuned whistle, and it was quickly followed by the approaching silhouette of a figure with a raised weapon. The familiar object—a barbed-wire baseball bat—swung rhythmically against the metal rungs of the outer main gate, its clang reverberating through the late morning air. A vicious voice followed.

"Little pig, little pig," it taunted. "Let me fucking in!"

Spencer's reaction was quicker than the scientist's. He stepped towards the gate, and swiftly unlocked it, revealing the sadistic face awaiting him on the other side. Behind Negan lay an entire militia of Saviors, their own presence marked by massive trucks, their open beds empty and ready for new equipment.

Negan's eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he regarded Spencer closely. The latter merely stared back and dully asked, "Who are you?"

Astrid recognized the younger man's feigned confusion instantly. She could not decide if Spencer was brave or foolish for the sudden edge of defiance.

Then, Negan began to laugh.

"Oh, you better be fucking joking!" He slapped his chest theatrically and motioned toward his weapon. "Negan? Lucille? I know I had to make a pretty fucking strong first impression."

From the corner of her eye, Astrid saw Rick hastily approaching from an opposite street. His concerned gaze swept briefly over her before settling on the intruder. "You said a week," he addressed icily. "You're early."

Negan's mocking grin only widened, canines practically glinting. "I missed you," he taunted.

Before the leader of the Saviors could step fully through the open gate, the growl of an approaching walker drew his attention. He spun on his heel and swung the barbed-wire bat with effortless power, bludgeoning the walker's brains with a single, gory blow. "Holy fuck!" He crowed excitedly. "Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!" He shifted his weapon to point at his followers gathered behind him. "All right, everybody. Let's get started. It's a big fucking day."

Astrid scanned the crowd of approaching Saviors. Amidst the black wave, her gaze landed on a figure half-hidden behind Dwight, and her breath hitched as she recognized the horrific, broken face of her husband.

No.

Daryl's once recognizable, tanned features were now torn open by deep, jagged cuts and blue bruises. Both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut, his lips split straight down their middles, leaving red stains on his teeth, and his nose was distorted from repeated heavy blows. Filthy gray sweats, nearly three sizes too big for his starving frame, clad his bloody body and were marked with a glaring, spraypainted orange "A." What disturbed Astrid even more was that, despite the warm sun overhead, he trembled uncontrollably.

What had they done to him?

Her hunter looked so damaged. So utterly defeated. So alone. The distance between them felt immense, paralyzing even, though they stood only a few feet apart. As Astrid's worried eyes continued to trace over her husband, taking in every injury, every abuse, her heart shattered further. Daryl barely dared to lift his flinching, watery gaze from the cracked cement beneath his bare, blistered feet.

Why wouldn't he look at her?

Without realizing it, Astrid took a step forward. She needed to touch him, to hold him, to draw him back to her. To keep them from hurting him.

Astrid almost whimpered aloud upon feeling a restraining hand suddenly grip the back of her flannelled shirt. It was a gentle, inconspicuous touch meant to avoid drawing attention. She halted and knew instantly without looking that it was Rick. Though she despised the way his touch felt, how it felt so foreign and familiar all at once, she also understood that she could not pull away and risk making a bigger scene. He was only trying to protect her, Daryl, and everyone else from the fallout of her impulsive reactions.

"Hey, Rick, you see that? What I just did?"

Negan's voice ripped Astrid violently from her thoughts.

"That is some fucking service. I mean, we almost get turned away at the gate, but do I get mad? Do I throw a fit? Do I bash some ginger's dome in? Fuck no! I just take care of one of these dead pricks that could've killed one of you." Negan gave a fake sort of bow. "Service," he repeated with a cocky flourish. Then he thrust the barbed-wire bat into Rick's hand. "Here, hold this," he ordered.

Rick tensed as the blood-streaked bat was dropped into his grasp. Both he and Astrid knew he could not dare drop it, lest he provoke the leather-jacketed tyrant further. As fresh walker blood dripped from the barbs, Negan took his first step into Alexandria, spreading his arms wide in dramatic awe.

"Hot diggity dog! This place is fucking magnificent!" He cried. "An embarrassment of riches they say. Yes, sir, I do believe you're going to have fucking plenty to offer up."

Instead of acknowledging the comment, Rick's attention shifted back to Daryl, who remained motionless. "Daryl?" He called tentatively. "Are you—"

"No, no!" Negan interrupted with steely authority, positioning himself directly between Rick and Daryl. "No.  Absolutely fucking not.  He's just the help. You don't fucking look at him, you don't fucking talk to him, and I don't make you fucking chop anything off of him."

Rick fell silent instantly, his compliance immediate. But Astrid's gaze remained locked on her husband. Over Negan's shoulder, she could see Daryl's trembling chin, the instilled fear so evidently beaten into him as he tilted his head away. A wrathful scream of Astrid's own threatened to rip through her.

Yet it died in her throat as Negan's smirk appeared in her vision next, cutting her stare away from her hunter completely. The leader of the Saviors leaned into the Dixon woman, his breath hot against her skin. "Same goes for everyone else," he sneered at her. "No offense, but you're looking like fucking hell, sweetheart. Not getting enough to eat? Well, fuck, maybe I should take you home with me. Could be just what it takes to get this fucker talking."

Negan's eyes proceeded to roam brazenly over her. "Hell," he purred, raspy voice thick with a newfound dark possessiveness, "I might just keep you for myself. Didn't mean to come on too strong, but holy fuck, you're scorching. Super-motherfucking-hot." He reached out, his index finger brushing a stray lock of hair from Astrid's forehead, lingering there as if savoring a moment. Meanwhile, his calloused thumb grazed her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his, his touch imprisoning her. "Yep," he declared, as if coming to a private consensus, "you're coming home with me."

Astrid's teeth ground together.

She would not bow. She would not bow. She would not bow.

Rick stepped up beside her, his body a shield. "You're not taking her." His tone was imbued with a strength she had not heard since the lineup. His hand clasped her arm, pulling in a bid to free her from Negan's grip. "You can take anything else you want, but you're not taking her."

Negan's eyes flashed dangerously as they flicked to glare at Rick. "You're not in charge anymore, Rick," he spat. "I am." Astrid struggled to pull away, but Negan's hold on her face only tightened, his cold stare peeling back to hers.

She forced herself to look away from him. Naturally, she sought her husband, and found him easily, still standing, unmoving, among the sea of Saviors. Daryl's shifty gaze had finally settled on her, and it held there. Astrid startled, catching it, and her breath nearly left her, recognizing a spark of warmth there, a silent flame only she knew.

Daryl's fists clenched at his sides. Dwight, still hovering beside him, noticed and tensed, ready for the slightest hint of further aggression. But it was Dwight who ultimately broke the silence first.

"You don't want her," he said to Negan, chillingly calm.

The leader of the Savior's head snapped towards his scarred lieutenant. "And why the fuck not?"

"Because she's pregnant."

Astrid stiffened but otherwise maintained a placid expression, fully aware that Dwight would use any leverage he could against her. It was not as low a blow to the expecting mother as he likely thought it was. Nevertheless, the silence that followed from those left in the dark was profound, so dense that even a pin dropping would have seemed deafening.

Disbelief flooded Negan's playful expression as he turned slowly back to Astrid. He began to scrutinize her midsection, likely eyeing the bump relatively hidden beneath her husband's shirt. "A bun in the oven? Is that fucking right?" He murmured. "Not far along, I see . . . Plenty of room for things to go wrong."

Astrid's coy gaze remained steely in return. "You're right. Things could go wrong," she agreed evenly. The words she wanted to say—something along the lines of "I'd rather face those odds than ever kneel again to a monster like you"—burned on her tongue, but she swallowed them down. She would keep her strategy close to her chest. For now.

As if he could read her thoughts, Negan's smirk widened. "Is that all you've got for me?"

"Why would I give you what you so clearly want?" Astrid bit out. "Do what you need to do here. Then get the hell out."

"My, my . . ." Negan cooed. He glanced at Daryl with a taunting grin. "I can see why you picked her. She's a fucking firecracker, just like you." When Astrid's hunter remained stoic, Negan's attention returned solely to her. "For his sake, I'll chalk that last comment up to hormones." He chuckled darkly as he contemplated further, before adding, "And for your sake, I hope that baby looks like you. If it takes after its father, it's in for a rough fucking ride." He finally released her, giving her a last, lingering look.

Rubbing at her chin, Astrid took a step back as Negan swaggered past her and Rick, his hands arrogantly placed on his hips. "Alright, let's get this goddamn show on the road," he announced. "See what kind of goodies you've got in the fucking cupboard."

"We've already put aside half the supplies," Rick stated, clearly trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

"Nope." Negan denied shortly with a shake of his head. "You don't decide what we take. What did I just fucking say about who's in charge?"

Without waiting for a response, he gestured to a nearby Savior—a rare woman among the otherwise male-populated, black-clothed throng. She stepped forward with a rifle raised, her stance radiating order. "Move out!" she commanded to her men, her deep voice sharp and uncompromising.

The surrounding Saviors immediately sprang through the gate, scattering in groups and fanning out through the streets of the Safe Zone. Alexandrians who had been watching the exchange from a distance now recoiled, bowing their heads as if to appease the invading force. Astrid watched them all, revulsed by their terror.

"They're going to search the houses," Negan informed from behind. "Keeps the fucking process moving. So, Rick, are you going to show me around or not?"

Rick exhaled heavily, eyes flicking carefully between Daryl and Astrid. Neither partner would give him the satisfaction of comfort or reassurance.  After a tense moment, the leader of Alexandria resigned himself to his role as a humiliated tour guide. Gripping the barbed-wire baseball bat, Lucille, tightly, Rick started up the nearest street, his steps leaden and slow. Surprisingly, Negan did not immediately follow his newest pet. His black gaze had found Astrid again, the intensity of his fresh stare making her skin crawl.

"Give me an hour or two," Negan instructed her. "Then I'll decide if I'm taking your extra baggage home with me. Either way, sweetheart, you'd better start packing. Because once I've made my decision . . ." He leaned in closer, his sick grin twisting into something predatory as the unspoken threat formed between them.

"It's fucking final."

~~~~~~~~~~

my heart hurts knowing my babies are in so much pain.  i wish i could say it gets better.