Negan contemplates 'escaping' from his prison cell. TW for suicidal thoughts.

Life has become, literally, a prison. It always has been, no matter what frilly inspirational shit people like to spew. We're all stuck here in bodies that rot from the inside out, brains and hearts that petrify more with each passing day.

Some men might say I got to live my dreams. Got to live like a king. Well, kings are still bound to mortality too, motherfucker. Castle walls or prison bars - they're one and the same.

So here I am. My body surrounded by bars, and my mind suffocated under the weight. There's not much to do down here but think. Remember. Realize. That perhaps I'm comprised of more shit and failure than I ever thought, but now I know it… I motherfucking know it and I can't escape the stench of myself.

I try to cope. Sleeping. Messing with my jailers, Rick especially. Shooting my wad against the cell wall. But there's not much escapism in any of it.

I start to daydream, imagining all the scenarios and where I'd be if I'd played things differently. If I'd never existed. If I had died and she had lived. But this shit hurts. My new daydreams make me feel a little better.

I start dreaming about my suicide. Intimately imagining every moment of my body dying, that stubborn motherfucker fighting me every inch of the way. But I don't fucking rattle, no sir, and I put that fucker down. I imagine hanging, mostly, or maybe just smashing my dome against the wall until I look like that poor kid I killed. I imagine who will find me, and how they will react.

Olivia would scream and maybe cry, and Rick would grunt, annoyed. Irritated beyond belief that he hadn't seen me getting so dark, because if he had, he'd taken away the sheets, because how dare I escape his little cell prematurely.

The reactions are never long lasting. It's just the shock of seeing a body that was just talking shit hours ago when you'd last saw them. It's certainly not any grief or despair for my passing. A brief shock, then a disgruntled moan for having to deal with said body.

There's never any funerals in my dreamings. Funerals are for those who care. I'm already long dead and forgotten to anyone who might have. If they ever did. But what do I give a flying flip? I'm fucking dead.

I look down at my hands, knotting another length of my sheet. Problem is, there's no where to really hang it. The top of the door might be high enough, but it's closed, obviously, and the second bar down is still too low. That's what I get for being a tall motherfucker. I wonder how long it will take and how much pain I'll feel. I heard men often pop a hard one when they're being hung. 'Angel lust' , I think they used to call it. Heh. Sounds fitting for me. Hanging there, hard as fuck. I like it.

Fuck, I don't even have to dangle. I heard you can just tie the rope to somewhere, like a cell bar, sit in a chair and lean fucking forward. The rope digs into some nerve and you pass the fuck out, and your weight leaning on the rope does all the work. I can see me sitting there, a tent the size of the great pyramid in my pants, passed out and choking like I'm taking a thick cock down the throat. Probably Rick's.

That's a fantasy for another day. Or maybe not.

I sigh, staring over at the chair, then down at the sheet knotted into a rope. My dick is throbbing in my pants. Outside, the sky is turning pink as the sun lowers.

Olivia or Rick will be down with dinner soon. I start to unknot the sheet, hoping I'll have time to take care of little Negan before they do.

Life's a fucking prison…but I've got a lifetime to escape.

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