Summary: "I just need us... I need us to be friends again. If not my husband, I need a friend." A short story about Lucille's struggle with her husband, Negan, and her cancer. (Maybe 3-5 chapters)
Falling
Chapter 1: Weakness
It wasn't that he was disappointing, it was more so that he was consistently disappointing.
They had settled into a routine. He rushed out of the house every evening after work to meet his friends near the bar, eager to be away from her-to leave her alone in an empty house. And when he spoke to her he always felt unreachable, lightyears away. His perfect smile no longer reached his eyes, looking strangely miserable on his face despite the forced upturn of his lips. Their interactions were reduced to rushed conversations and accidental grazes of bodies within the kitchen. The only time he touched her now was at night after he collapsed onto their bed, passed out and drunk. The perfume that lingered on his clothes when he laid beside her in their bed never failed to make her cringe as he spooned her, holding her close to his chest as if nothing was amiss.
Lucille knew her husband was disloyal, and Negan had enough respect for his wife not to act as if she were too stupid to see it.
It was a odd sort of impass they had reached, neither willing to mention it, carrying on with their marriage as if they were both happy, pride keeping them silent. They were both far too stubborn to admit that they were a good way from being happily married.
He didn't go to any particular lengths to hide the affair, though it wasn't exactly dinner conversation. He had never been a liar; Negan was direct and brutally honest. Lucille was positive her husband had never tiptoed around anything in his life, and she had always enjoyed that particular quality in him.
Now she almost wished he would try to hide it, desperate to hear the lies leaving his lips, to bask in their poisonous comfort. But he wouldn't even grant her that mercy.
No, he was not a liar.
"Negan," she called when she saw him grab his coat and move to jet out the door in the foyer. "Where are you going?" If he was surprised she asked he didn't show it.
"Out to get a fucking drink. Maybe get my dick a little wet." he answered shortly, his hand resting against the silver handle of the door. He said it like it was a joke, as if she weren't here sitting by herself while he did just that.
"You've been out drinking almost every night this week." She tried not to make it sound like an accusation, wanting to keep the peaceful dynamic they had in place, dsyfunctional as it was. "I made dinner." Lucille was sure he knew it was more of a plea than anything else. She needed him, if only tonight.
"I'll fucking skip it."
Her heart sank. She stood with her fingers clenched tight around the envelope in her hands, knuckles turning white. "Negan, I want to talk to you. I'd really like it if you fucking didn't." The edges of his eyes narrowed at the acidic bite in her tone.
"We don't need to talk. There's nothing to goddamn talk about. You know how shit is, what's the fucking point of going on about it."
"Negan, it's not about-
"I'm going the fuck out I said. Eat by you damn self." He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Lucille with feelings of frustration and a twisted kind of resentment lining the insides of her heart.
She clasped the envelope close to her chest.
She didn't want to miss him. He didn't deserve it. But she did.
She sat at the kitchen table by herself like she did each night, the emptiness of their home more deafening now than ever.
They lived in a modest house, her husband being a high school gym coach, and Lucille an elementary school teacher. They couldn't afford anything too extravagant on just teacher's salaries, but both were already content with what they had. It had two small floors, with a garage and no backyard. The hallway near the front door had a bathroom to the left, and a kitchen on the right, the living room situated further down. Upstairs was a decent sized bedroom and another bathroom, larger than the one downstairs.
With Negan around the house was never quiet. Sometimes he would talk even Lucille wasn't listening. But now without him Lucille found the absence of sound disconcerting.
Her fingers curled inward, flexing nervously. The envelope rested in front of her, a cruel reminder of everything wrong in the world.
She took a deep breath, peeling open the seal at the top.
Dear Lucille,
Nothing in my career in medicine has prepared me for the task of being the one to regretfully inform you of this news. As a doctor I dispense advice on a daily basis, but those interactions remain strangely impersonal. However, as your friend, having this tragic disease reach my inner circle breaks my heart in more ways than you can imagine.
No one can know exactly what it feels like to be facing serious cancer, unless they have been through it themselves. Your doctors will not know, the rest of your family will not know, neither will your friends. I suggest...
Lucille read the rest of the letter, hands trembling as she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. She wiped her runny nose with the back of her sleeve as she tried to suck her quiet sobs back in. There was a list of suggested doctors and treatments, as well as a portfolio with information about the disease.
She had read it at least eight times, then again for no good reason. When she was finally done she felt exhausted, as if she were already half dead. But despite her tiredness she was still awake when Negan came home late into the night, her back facing him as she lay in the king sized bed, pillow soaked from hours of crying.
He wasn't quiet as he threw his heavy, black boots into the corner of the room and stripped out of his clothes. She heard his feet padding across the beige carpet, stopping just before the edge of the bed as he pulled back the gray comforter. Lucille didn't look at him as he laid next to her, but she turned, her arms hesitantly tangling around his waist in an awkward hug as she clung to him. His muscles jumped at the contact, and he gazed down at her in confusion.
"Lucille?" It wasn't concern, but curiousity in his voice.
She didn't answer, burying her head in his bare torso, her embrace far more tender than she was sure she had ever been with him. Her thumb stroked his abdomen gently, circling the naked skin.
He was silent for a moment. Then, "if you miss the feel of my fucking dick buried in your super hot ass all you have to do is tell me." he joked, his throaty laugh making her heart stutter.
"Shut the fuck up, Negan." The words lacked any real conviction and were halfhearted at best. She couldn't muster up the energy to be angry, not right now.
Instead, Lucille tilted her head up, kissing his lips, practically starving for the contact. To feel something, anything at all.
He didn't resist, sucking on her lower lip as he kissed her back. The way he ran his fingers along her breast distracted her, each time he kissed her leaving her breathless and feeling a bit more alive. She didn't care that another woman had, had him probably only hours before.
Lucille wasn't sure if Negan still loved her, but each touch let her believe maybe he did, even if a little. Having him here with her so intimately made her feel like she wasn't alone.
She needed to feel like she wasn't alone.
"Fuck, Lucille. What's the occasion?" Negan asked, grinning at her genuinely when they were done.
She licked her lips, her hand resting against his shoulder, Negan still kneeling over her, both of them breathing heavy from exertion. "I-I just love you, you know?"
His thick brow furrowed and he looked suspicious. Neither of them were usually overtly emotional, so she was surprised at herself for admitting it to him, and even more surprised that she still meant it. "You fucking love me? That's it? You haven't loved me in months, Lucy."
She shook her head, regarding him seriously. "No, it's true. I just want you to know...I love you. More than anyone, I think."
He scoffed, and she averted her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Go to fucking sleep, Lucille. Because we both know that's a damn lie."
"You think I shouldn't love you, that's why. But I do, Negan."
Her husband rolled off of her, lying flat on his back. "If you think I'm going to stop because of that, I fucking won't."
"I don't think you'd stop."
"Good."
He turned his back to her, and didn't touch her anymore after that. So she lay there, her body naked, feeling more vulnerable than ever, Negan just as impenetrable as he'd always been.
The silence was soon drowned out by his soft snoring. And Lucille decided she would keep the envelope in her nightstand.
She wouldn't try to tell him again.
It was strange how nothing changed when you were dying. The world continued on around her, while Lucille was stuck at a standstill. She still went to work, cleaned the house, spoke with her family and friends-but suddenly everything was pointless.
She went to every appointment, always alone. Each visit she would sit on the cold metal table, the only sound in the room a pen on paper, as the doctor took notes. No one held her hand, or comforted her. The only thing she received was a prescription and a date for the next examination.
For hours and hours she would dedicate her time to reading different articles and researching recommended treatments, thinking maybe she would find something-something that would change the outcome. But the conclusion always remained the same.
She was going to die. And life would, without question, go on.
"You have to tell him, Lucille." her sister told her from across the table, as the waiter walked away with their orders.
"Melissa, I tried. He's out the door before I can even say hello." Lucille tapped her finger along the rim of her glass. "I won't force him to be a part of my life. I can do it alone. I'll be fine."
"He's your husband! He should be part of your life. You need to talk."
"He doesn't want to fucking talk! And neither do I."
Melissa looked at her with pity, the same way the doctors looked at her. They all looked at her like she was already dead. "You haven't even told mom and dad yet, Lucy. You can't keep this from everyone who loves you!"
Lucille exhaled through her nose, glaring at her sister over her coke. "It really isn't your decision."
She left the restaurant angry and bitter. Melissa meant well, she knew. But she didn't make her feel any better. Lucille had thought if she told someone it would make her feel better.
So why didn't she?
Her hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel of her silver Honda, forcing her to pull over to the side of the road. She brought her fist down against the interior of the car, frustrated.
Helplessness wasn't a feeling Lucille was accustomed to. But now she was trapped in a box and there were only walls surrounding her. There was no way to tear them down. No way out.
She sat there for a while, leaning her head back against the headrest, staring up at the roof of the car blankly.
It took twenty-five minutes before she could will herself to drive again.
When she got home she slammed the door harder than she meant to, throwing her purse on the floor.
"What's got your shit in a tizzy?"
Lucille marched past her husband, pushing him out of the way. "Why the hell are you still here?" she asked, unable to help the angry way the question came out.
"I'd say I damn near missed you, baby."
She thrust the keys down on the counter, her eyes vicious. "In case you couldn't tell-I'm not in the mood."
He smiled, his tongue slipping out between his teeth slightly. "Wow, you haven't looked at me like that in a long time. It's kind of hot, I think I've got a fucking hard on. Tell you what, I get balls deep in you tonight and maybe I'll stay home." His eyes sparkled mischievously and Lucille could feel her last nerve snap.
"You just never know when to stop, Negan. You push and you push! Sometimes-sometimes I just-" Her fists were shaking at her side and she thought she might hit him. Instead, she burst out into a unexpected sob, overwhelmed by her emotions.
Negan's demeanor changed at the sight, his hazel eyes widening. He stiffened uncomfortably, looking unsure of himself. He hesitated. "Shit, Lucille...I-
"Just stop." she commanded, blinking away her tears as suddenly as they came. It took effort to hold them back, but she did. Then, taking a deep breath, "I need us to be okay again, Negan. Do you understand?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but Lucille beat him to it. "I don't need you to stop whatever it is your doing. I don't care about that. But I need..."
Her husband gazed at her, looking uncharacteristically guilty, waiting patiently for her to finish. Negan wasn't softhearted, but Lucille didn't cry often. And now that she thought about it, maybe he had never seen her cry. "What do you need, Lucille?"
She struggled to find the words for a moment, unsure of how to voice what exactly it was she needed.
She spoke slowly, "I just need us... I need us to be friends again. If not my husband, I need a friend."
There was a heavy silence. He looked at her earnestly, no more jokes, his expression solemn. "I can fucking do that." he promised. And she believed him.
Her eyes softened, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.
It was selfish. She knew that. If there was an opportunity where he could continue on and erase her from his memory it would be merciful to let him take it. Really the affair, shitty as it was, was perfect timing.
It would be ideal if he forgot her.
But she was scared. And as strong as Lucille had thought she had been, suddenly she felt oh so very weak.
Her heart beat unsteadily in her chest, knowing Negan would be ashamed. She was a coward. He had always prided her on being 'the most badass bitch' he had ever seen. But really, Lucille was just a weakling. A dying woman desperately clinging to a man who didn't even want her.
Oh yes, she thought as she cupped her husband's cheek.
Negan would be so ashamed.
Dying felt strangely like falling.
Except there was no getting up again once you hit the floor.