Author's note: Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the wait on this update. I have no good excuse aside from the fact that sometimes the crud in my head steals the joy from all aspects of life, including writing. Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and reviews on the last chapter, you have no idea how many times I reread them when I was struggling these past few weeks, I'm so grateful to you all. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this Negan chapter! As always, please read, review, and most of all enjoy!

Side note: this chapter goes back in time for a lot of the content, displaying events from the big man's perspective.

I enter my bedroom and nothing's changed, but everything's different. From the way I have my shit set up, to the woman sprawled in my sheets, it's all the same, yet it might as well be fucking smeared over with horse shit. I carried that girl in here tonight, laid her down on my fucking bed, let her tears stain my fucking shirt after burying the dog I fucking killed to get her.

I bend over backwards so fucking far I could tongue fuck my own shitter for that woman and she lies to me, right to my fucking face.

"She made a deal with me boss, said she just wanted ten minutes to talk to the guy. I didn't think anything would happen. I'm so fucking sorry."

Dwight buckles to the ground with one tap of Lucille on his knee.

"Kiss her."

The little pussy's jaw clenches as he stares at the tip of Lucille while I hold her to the side at prime cocksucking height. I chuckle at the sight of him craning his head to kiss Lucille's smooth skin, shit's almost better than getting my own dick sucked. Almost.

Rori cries in her sleep, her tiny body shaking above the sheets she kicked off herself. Any other night the sight and sound of it all would send my giant ass crawling into bed with her, pulling her against my chest, ready to do any fucking thing in the whole god damned world to take away her pain, but tonight it just pisses me off.

I gotta do some pretty fucked up shit to keep the world turning. I know Rori doesn't approve of the way we're handling Daryl, but I never thought for one god damned second she'd go behind my back like she did today. She's toed the line with me before, but today she lept over that fucker and spat in my face as she did. And what did it get her?

"I-I watched Dwight, he left the keys where he was sitting."

What a load of shit that I was almost fucking ready to believe simply because it came from her mouth. Lied to, by the only person who has my trust... Had.

I walk past the bed to the bar and pour myself a glass of the shit ass vodka Rori picked up earlier. Taking a seat at the table I swirl it around in my glass as if it'll help the taste. What was that shit anyway? If I hadn't showed up, was she really about to put my fucking kid in danger by drowning her grief in alcohol? I shake my head and let the thought be replaced by the burn of the liquid as it goes down.

Rori sobs harder, her face mashing into the damp pillow.

I should have taken a polaroid or somefuck before I went to find little D-bag. Before, this was a room of peace and good memories with a near perfect, honest, woman that loves the fuck out of me. That image is shattered. It's a room full of lies, betrayal, and a girl who's no different than any other untrustworthy dickhead in this place.

"Ever heard of fuckus interruptus?!" I shout, gritting my teeth at the little shit knocking on my door. Rori's rolls her eyes, but the little smile on her lips says she loves my funny fuckery.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's important."

Fucking fuck. Simon wouldn't persist if it wasn't something important that had his dick in a knot. I lay down on my back a second more before heading to the door to face whatever bullshit I'm gonna have to handle.

"Yes?" He flinches when the door smacks against the wall. Pussy.

"There's been an incident. Somehow the prisoner, Daryl, he escaped."

There goes my nice fucking night. I see red as I grab Simon's shirt collar, fisting that shit like a seasoned porn star. "What do you mean he escaped?"

The man blanches and I swear even his fucking mustache starts trembling. I'd laugh if I weren't about to kick his fucking teeth in. He stumbles over his own fucking feet as I let go of his shirt. "You better start talking, right fucking now."

"Sir, Dwight discovered him missing about an hour ago. He looked for him, but the guy stole a bike. He was long gone before D found his cell empty. He killed Fat Joey."

"Mother of fuck!" I take out my frustration on the fucking door jam. I pinch between my eyes, fighting against the desire to beat the shit out of the nearest fucker, who happens to be a loyal asshole. If Daryl got out of his own cell, what if he got to the mute bitch down the hall? "Did he take her?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. It was just him."

I let out a deep breath. Thank fuck. Though it's not like she could've gotten far after the shape those degenerates left her in.

Simon watches me like a dog waiting his master's command. I run my tongue along my teeth, deciding on the best course of action. "Tell Dwighty boy he'll be hanging on the fucking fence by his intestines if he's not down in his room by the time I get there."

Without another word, Simon turns to carry out my command.

I look back at Rori, still sitting on my bed. She gazes up at me warily. My mind flashes fucking red for a moment as I take her in. There's no god damned way she'd do that to me. But just days ago I thought she'd never lie to me, or scheme behind my back to cozy up to the very fucker who's missing.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you, Darlin'? I ask her, reaching over to grab Lucille from her rest.

Rori's eyes widen and she wrinkles her eyebrows together in the same doey fucking look she made when feeding me horse shit the other night. "No. Of course not," she says, her assurance dripping with honey.

"Of course not," I repeat, rolling her words across my tongue. The wide eyed, expression she pins me with doesn't break as I watch her. The corners of her mouth droop into a frown.

Something in my gut gnaws at me like one of the fucking dead as I turn back towards the door. Tonight is gonna be a long one. "No telling how long this shit show will take, Darlin'. You get some rest."

I catch her nod before I shut the door a little harder than was probably fucking necessary.

The night, once I leave my house, does jack shit to cool the anger growing with each step. Every goddamn day there's another load of bullshit and fuckery to deal with, and just in the past few days I've had my authority shat on left and right. First, Rori's little rende-fucking-vous with Daryl, then Rori practically shouts to the fucking rooftops that she and all my other wives have known about Amber and Mark screwing around for months. Are you catching the common fucking denominator? Now when Daryl kills one of my men and fucking escapes, Mrs. Doe-eyes "of course" has nothing to do with it.

People drop to their knees, worshipping me as they fucking should, when I enter the Community Center. I make my way to the Savior's lounge. Three men lower in the ranks sit at a table, smoking and drinking as they play cards. At the sight of me, their conversation quiets and they start to kneel.

"Stand the fuck up," I order the group before their knees touch the ground, "It's your lucky night gentlemen, you've got a fucking job to do." I look up at the rest of the Savior's in the room having abandoned whatever shit they were doing to kneel at my presence. "The rest of you," I command across the room, "meet Simon out in the yard. It's been awhile since we've had a good search party, but I trust you all fucking remember what to do."

I toss Lucille over my shoulder and the Saviors disperse to obey my instructions, the group of three follows behind me as we round the corner to the hall of rooms for my higher ups. I lead them in front of Dwight's door. "Plain and simple," I look back at the group, "Beat the living fuck out of this prick."

Chuckling at the expression on their fucking stupid faces, I knock a rhythm on Dwight's door with Lucille and step aside. The first asshole kicks in the door before D even has the chance to open it. Gold fucking star for the enthusiasm, but there are only so many goddamn door knob kits left in the world

Dwight gasps with every blow as the three men, eager to prove their mettle, spare no measure in their obedience to my order. I let the shit knocking continue for a good couple minutes to make sure the point sinks in for ol' Dwighty boy. One of them takes hold of Dwight's nasty ass hair and slams his head into the concrete.

"Alright," I say loudly, immediately stopping the punishment.

I step forward, crouching down above Dwight, shakily propping himself up from the ground with blood dripping off his face. I take his jaw in my hand like a disobedient dog after rubbing its face in piss.

"Jesus Christ, I didn't think it was even possible to make your ugly fucking mug even more fucking - well, ugly!" The three men laugh until I shoot them a look that wipes the smiles off their faces. I let go of his face with a shove. "You done fucked up, D."

I rise back to my full height, throwing Lucille over my shoulder. "Put this piece of shit in the Hold for the night, see if a little time out reminds him what happens when you fuck up your only fucking job."

Dwight grunts like a pussy as the men grab him under the arms and force him to his feet. I stand back and watch as they practically drag his fucking ass down the hall. I shake my head, the goddamn lengths I have to go to, to keep that dumbass in line.

The search parties in the woods are out for hours and all we have to show for it are two new dead fucks on the fence, too stupid to watch their own backs. I'm covered in sweat and dirt, and I doubt I could dump enough booze into my coffee cup to knock me out of this shit ass mood. Doesn't fucking mean I'm not gonna try.

I prop my feet up on the conference table desk, letting Lucille rest beside them. She's just as fucking frustrated as I am so I cannot be held responsible for what she does to the next cuntlicker who pisses her off.

"You wanted me?" The question peers around the corner.

"Yes I fucking did," I say, still not bothering to take my feet off the desk.

Sherry looks like she's been through a fucking blender when she walks in, hair all messed up, no makeup, one arm wrapped around her waist.

"Fuck is wrong with you?" I ask, looking at her past my boots.

Her lips press together and she holds her stomach tighter. "Nothing," she snaps, "just a rough morning."

I laugh. She doesn't know shit about a rough morning. "I'll say. You gotta get your shit together lickity fucking split. I don't want people thinking I stick my dick in anything the damn cat drags in."

"What do you want from me, Negan?" She sighs, taking a seat and propping her head up on a tired hand.

"Rori."

She raises an eyebrow. "You asked someone to get me to get you Rori?"

"How has she seemed the past few days? Has she been acting strangely?"

Sherry bites her cheek, but she can't hide the way her upper lip curls slightly at the mention of Rori. She takes a deep breath. "She's like eleven years pregnant, any woman would be acting strangely," she says with exasperation.

I take my feet off the desk, leaning on my thighs towards Sherry. "I've been the one dealing with her crazy the whole fucking pregnancy. I'm not talking about nesting or some shit. I'm talking about other shit, something you might have noticed."

"I really don't know her all that well," she retorts, leaning back in her chair so far I'm surprised she doesn't tip the fucking thing over. "She doesn't really come around the other wives. You said it yourself," she tips her hand to me, "you're the one who's been with her since day one. Do you think she's been acting strange."

Fuck women for always being able to turn shit back on you. "I don't fucking know," I grouse. Sherry purses her lips like she's waiting for a better answer. It's been a long ass time since we've had one of our Jewish mother style talks, but fuck it all if the bitch doesn't give good advice here and there. "She lied to me about visiting Daryl the night her dog got shot. Said she waited for Dwight to leave, that he left his keys laying there. I fucking wanted to believe her too, but you and I both know D would never just leave his shit out in the open like that. If nothing else he's got hustle and knows his shit. I asked him about it and he caved first thing, admitted she made him an offer, cigarettes for time with Daryl."

Sherry's eyes widen and her mouth gapes like a dead fish when she hears Dwight told me about the deal.

"He's fucking fine," I calm her worries about the guy, "well, I mean he probably feels like shit after the fucking ass beating he got last night - Don't give me that look, it was for a whole different fuck up."

She goes stoic, staring at the table, before looking up at me again. "She's not perfect, Negan. People lie all the time."

But not Rori. Not to me. At least that was what I fucking thought. "She's fucking different."

"Because you want her to be?"

Again with the flipping shit around.

"The fuck do you mean by that?"

She sighs heavily again. "I mean I'm not privy to much between you two, but the way I see it, you brought her here, gave her a free pass in a lot of ways from day one, you left the system you had with all us ladies behind for her, and she's carrying your child. Obviously you feel strongly about Rori, maybe you even love -"

For some reason that word pisses me the fuck off. "I'm not fucking capable of that shit," I spit.

Sherry raises her palms in concession. "Semantics aside, from a bystander's perspective, you care for her, right?"

"Sure."

"So it makes sense that your feelings for Rori give you higher expectations of her. You want so badly to see the best in her that maybe you don't always see the worst." She leans forward setting her hand on mine. "She's human, she's gonna make mistakes, and she's going to lie. If you only see her as being perfect, you're gonna be shocked when you find out she's not."

Everything Sherry says makes perfect sense, but it only makes the anger burn hotter. I keep picturing Rori's face as she stared me in the fucking eyes and lied to me about visiting Daryl. It's the same face I saw when she said she had nothing to do with Daryl's escape. If she's willing to lie about small fucking potatoes, why wouldn't she lie to protect her ass over something far bigger.

I change the subject. All the mushy feelings crap women talk about can fuck itself with Lucille. "Did you see Rori at all yesterday?"

"After everything with Mark?" Sherry's tone sharpens.

I nod.

"I only saw her when she was coming back to the house last night. It was dark, so I guess pretty late."

I scratch at the stubble already forming from less than a day's growth. "Go fucking get cleaned up, alright? You look like a shart in heels."

Sherry rolls her eyes and makes her way out of the conference room. I throw back a cold sip of boozie coffee that's gone sour after sitting out. If Sherry saw Rori return to the house late, that would be long after her shift in the infirmary would be over, leaving far more unaccounted for time in her day than I am motherfucking comfortable with.

The whiskey burns the back of my throat but that doesn't stop me from taking another swig right from the fucking bottle. I let barbs of Lucille dig into my fingertips, one by one as if the pain could make me feel something again. In spite of the copious amount of alcohol I've consumed, images of all the fuckery from today won't stop playing through my mind.

Arat is expressionless as she walks over from the desk in the infirmary. "Boss, I think I found what you were looking for."

I take the bronze key from her hand and everything goes fucking numb. Standing up from the chair by the door, I throw Lucille over my shoulder and pocket the key. "Start the furnace and prepare the Iron. I want every fucking Savior in that boiler room."

She nods and I leave the building.

Rori looks up at me with crocodile tears streaming down her face. "I would never let him go! It was a mistake to see him last time, and I'm so sorry. But I didn't let him go. Please, you have to believe me!"

Something inside me breaks every time her voice does as she grows more and more hysterical. I want to believe her so fucking badly. She lied to me about Daryl. She humiliated me with Amber and Mark. She's soft. She hated what I was doing with Daryl. "She's not perfect, Negan. People lie all the time." Cold seeps into me because whatever it is I need to see in her eyes, it isn't fucking there. And Dwight's key in her desk, it was fucking there.

"That's the problem, Darlin'," I look her straight in her wide, watery eyes, "I don't."

I set Lucille down in her stand and slam the door behind me. Eight doors line the hallway. Emily, Jackie, Sherry, two for the bathroom and common room, Amber, and… vacancy. I pick the second door down the line, hers is never locked.

Jackie sets her book down to the side and sits up in bed. Soft green eyes look up at me in confusion.

"I thought" -

- "Not any-fucking-more."

Her lips part in a soft, "oh."

I close the door behind me and kick off my boots. When I turn back, Jackie's pushed herself up, resting on her heels. She reaches up, letting her blonde hair out of the clip she had it up in. ""Are you sure?" She asks.

"Shut up," I say, moving to the edge of her bed. She doesn't say another word as I grab her roughly, and crush my mouth against hers. Her lips are small, not the shape I crave, but they part easily. The taste of her tongue as she doesn't even try to fight back against my dominance is wrong.

Jackie gives me soft sighs instead of desperate "fuck me now" moans as I bite the crook of her neck instead of sucking gently. I strip her of her nightgown and am met with lush, creamy curves and flawless skin. My hands are lost without the fucking beautiful swell of my own goddamn child beneath them, no lines of painful history and strength paint Jackie's flesh.

Everything feels wrong. Nothing I do quells my increasing frustration and anger. I flip Jackie over onto her knees. She shivers with anticipation at the sound of my belt unbuckling. A moment later she gasps as I drive my cock deep inside her.

Nothing. I feel fucking nothing.

Pounding hard and deep inside Jackie is a bastardization of the satisfaction I need. My mind doesn't clear the way it always used to. The sensation is a mockery.

I punish myself, pushing harder and faster though my muscles are shitting themselves at the pace. Jackie quakes beneath me as she cries out with pleasure, calling my name in a voice that sounds all fucking wrong.

I thread my fingers through her smooth, straight hair much easier than through thick, dark, ringlets. Tightening my hand into a fist, Jackie cries out again sharply as I tug against her skull.

Nothing. I thrust into her harder. She's wrong. This is wrong. I can't feel any fucking thing.

"Negan, you're hurting me!" Jackie reaches back and my wrist, trying to unknot my fingers from her hair. "Negan!"

I stop moving, panting hard trying to catch my fucking breath. Jackie doesn't move away, but she doesn't look back either.

When I start to move again, my ego isn't the only thing that deflates. It's like pushing fucking rope. I pull out of her. This was nothing like it should have been. I should be basking in fucking orgasmic glory, but instead I just feel sick. Jackie scoots forward on the bed, curls her knees up to her chest and looks back at me, her eyes red and shining with moisture. I'm a sick fuck.

"It's okay, Ne-"

- "I thought I told you to fucking shut up," I growl, shoving myself into my pants zipping them up. Tears finally fall onto her cheeks but she doesn't say another word as I leave, slamming her fucking door behind me.

I make a quick trip back to my room and grab Lucille before heading out of the house to calm the dizzy haze of rage and alcohol. I was only going to do a fucking perimeter sweep to get my mind off things, off Her, but when I make it to the main yard I catch sight of a light on in the infirmary and the shadow of a curled up lump on one of the sick beds. Immediately I change course and head out the gates, threatening to let Lucille have her way with the guards if they don't open the gate faster.

It's stupid as fuck to be going out without a light or a gun this fucking late at night, but I don't give a flying shit. I navigate the path to the kennel with ease because I'm the one who fucking laid it out at the start of everything. When I start the night there are 34 fucking dead heads in that kennel and by the end there's nothing but a fucking pile of corpses and an absolute goddamn mess. At least Lucille got some satisfaction from the carnage because despite my exhaustion, I'm just as pissed and frustrated as I was when I fucking left.

When I finally head back, the light in the infirmary is off.

"Do you want anything, water or some shit?" I say, offering a seat to my very uncomfortable looking guest.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir," she mutters in a soft voice.

Even when Molly takes a seat she doesn't remove her arms from around her waist, putting up a physical barrier between us. Her fear makes me chuckle because it's so misplaced.

"By golly, miss Molly," I laugh, setting a glass of water in front of her anyway and taking a seat opposite her at the table. "So sweetheart, what's the motherfucking scoop?"

"She's been" -

- "Ah," I stop her, "we have plenty of fucking time to talk about her. I meant with you, Darlin'."

"Oh, um. I'm fine."

There's that word again. I'll never understand women and their fucking preoccupation with the word fine. "Fine, eh?"

I laugh, sitting back, casually crossing my ankle over my thigh as she fucking chugs half the glass of water, spilling some when she nods.

"The pay bump has been working out for you?" I ask her once she sets the glass down.

"Yes, sir. Thank you again." She doesn't look at me when she speaks, instead directing her deep brown eyes to the wood of the table as if the fucking cure for the apocalypse were written on it.

"Any fucking time," I smile at her, but she still seems terrified at my presence. It's half amusing, half annoying as shit. I reach over and tip her chin up to actually look me in the goddamn eyes for once. I address her with a more sober tone. "No one's been giving you trouble?"

Molly looks confused for a second before understanding crosses her face. "No, nothing like that at all."

"Good." I nod, sitting back in my seat. "If anyone so much as fucking looks at you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, you fucking tell me or Simon and we will shut that shit down lickity fucking split." I fucking mean that shit too. However, I don't feel the need to tell her that if I ever hear of the fucked up shit that happened with her happening again, I'll replace the responsible fuckers eye's with their motherfucking testicles.

"Yes sir," she nods, relaxing slightly back in her chair, "thank you."

"No fucking need to thank me, not for that shit."

She gives another timid nod, tucking her short hair behind her ear though it was never out of place. "So about Rori?" She offers as a subject change.

I smile at her again, though I feel like tossing my shit seeds at the sound of her name. "Yes. Fucking 304, how is she?"

Molly takes another sip of water. "She says she's alright, but she's definitely having a hard time." I nod for her to continue. "She cries in her sleep. I don't even think she knows she does it. Still hasn't been back to the showers after the first time."

"She ever say anything about me?"

"I thought she would by now, but she hasn't said a word."

"And you've tried to get her too?"

"Yes sir," she bites her thumbnail fearfully.

"And?" I push.

"Nothing. She changes the subject."

I take a deep breath. I have to fight back the frustration without freaking the shit out of Molly. "She hasn't said one fucking thing about me?"

Molly takes another sip of water before fiddling with the rim of the glass. I study her every move, I can tell she's not fucking telling me something. "Molly?"

"Only in her sleep."

"Go on."

"Well in her sleep both the first night and last night, she said your name a couple times but that was it."

It's both frustrating as fuck and relieving as hell. Rori never had a problem talking up a storm with me, so it's troubling to hear that she's staying so tight lipped to a girl who's literal fucking job is to be her confidante. But the fact that she's dreaming about me is something. She's not as unaffected as she wants Molly to think.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's a good start, Molly. You're doing good by me so far. But I need you to push her a little more. Try to see if you can get her to talk about me, about Daryl, anything you can get for me."

"Yes, sir," she assures.

"Good girl," I grin. Loyal fucking kid she is. Loyal and fucking useful at that.

"Fuck you, Negan."

The look in Rori's eyes as she said it burns going down with the whiskey.

"I'm stronger than you ever thought I'd be. And you hate that, because it means I don't need you anymore. I don't owe you anything."

I throw back another sip of realization that she wasn't wrong. I gave that woman everything I ever fucking could and it blows up in my goddamn face. How fucking strong could I be if the weakest of physical beings doesn't even need me to protect them? I take another drink.

Vision's of Keno and Gary begging for their fucking lives flash through my head. Simon commented on the new additions to the fence.

I have another swig.

By the time I made my way back to The Hold, sickness claimed that fucked up girl, leaving a snarling undead with my own fucking initial, unwittingly signing off on those bastards handiwork, staring back at me. I took my time with her, letting Lucille destroy her body before finally ending it all for the sorry bitch in one swing.

"If it weren't for me, you'd still be some fuckers fucking cum dumpster getting fucked into the dirt every motherfucking night."

I can't even taste the alcohol anymore so I guzzle that fucking whiskey like apple juice. Bullshit between us or not, that was the most fucked up shit I've ever said to anyone. I saw first fucking hand that night in the woods, the horror that Rori lived through for months on motherfucking end. I watched her cry, and shake, and fucking whimper through countless nightmares after the shit that bastard did to her. I've felt the deep, banding, scars all over her body where the sick fuck dug his teeth into her, not to mention carved a fucking letter in her face. And there I go and spit it in her face, mocking her for the worst motherfucking thing anyone could ever go through.

I finish the fucking bottle.

I honestly don't even fucking know my own name by the time I come back around. I wake up laying in a pool of my own vomit, still half fucking drunk mind you. Everything on my shelves and tables is thrown to the ground if it isn't in pieces. I haven't been this fucked up since the morning after Lucille lost the baby. I remember what I said to the woman currently carrying my child last night. Just thinking about it makes me wish there was even a drop left in the bottle.

I figure out what woke me up when Simon uses his key to open my door. The Luigi looking motherfucker walks over to me and I stare at his boots, wishing they'd stop fucking pounding so loud on the carpet.

"Boss?" Simon crouches down in front of me and I pry myself up to a seated position. Chunks of who the fuck knows stick to my arm when I swipe it across my face. Simon looks at me with either disgust or pity. I could probably tell if the whole damn room wasn't spinning. Fuck him either way.

"You need to get cleaned up," he loops an arm under mine, helping pull me to my feet.

He starts to try and lead me to the bathroom but I'm not some pussy. "Fuck off," I shrug out of his support and almost fall in the fucking process. I stumble to regain my balance but I'm able to walk my own drunk ass to the bathroom.

I lean against the wall and strip my fucking rancid clothes off before stepping in to take a cold shower.

When I get out and throw on a clean set of clothes, Simon is waiting in my room with a cup of coffee.

I sit on the bed, and he hands me the mug but I don't drink it. I don't want to be waited on like some bitch by my second in command.

"Just drink it you asshole," he levels with me.

Fine. I fucking do, but only because I wanted some goddamn coffee anyway.

"Are you alright?" Simon asks, leaning against the table across from me.

"Fuck you."

Simon shrugs, letting it go as he most definitely fucking should. However, hungover dick hole though I may fucking be, I can still read him and there's something off about the way he's twiddling his fucking thumbs. He takes a deep breath. Here it fucking comes.

"Boss, I've gotta tell you something."

It's never "they've discovered a way to grow a second dick," that follows those words. I take a sip of my coffee. "Spit it the fuck out then."

"I ran into Mark last night."

"I swear if that waffle faced fuck is crossing me again"-

- "No, it's nothing like that," Simon assures. All of the color drains from his face. "He just needed help changing his bandage because the infirmary was closed for the night. And he started telling me shit about the day he was ironed. I won't waste your time with the details, but long story short, he mentioned that Rori was with him that entire day, that she worked on him non-stop for hours trying to get his burn clean and shit."

"So she was doing her fucking job," I deadpan.

"Well more than that, she was with him the whole day. He said that it was dark out before she ever left the infirmary, she didn't even eat or anything."

So she's a fucking martyr, let's build a goddamn monument. "What's so fucking special about that? She was doing what she was supposed to."

Simon looks at me like I'm a fucking idiot. "That's exactly it, boss. Do you remember what else happened the day Mark got the iron?"

I couldn't tell you what I fucking had for dinner last night dead sober, and this asshole shows up quizzing me about my days when I'm still half fucking hammered. Oh yeah, "the kid showed up and…" My head shoots up.

"Daryl escaped."

"That doesn't mean shit, Simon," I shake my head, growing more and more disturbed by the second. "She did eventually leave the fucking infirmary. She had time to let him out that night."

Simon looks at me gravely. He's always been a straight ass shooter. "No boss, she didn't. Daryl killed Fat Joey when he left. I saw the body myself before I went to get you, dude was way fucking long since dead."

I stand up from the bed, coffee spills because my hands are shaking so fucking much. "Tell me exactly what you're trying to fucking say."

"Rori didn't let Daryl go."

Silence hangs in the air until it shatters along with my coffee cup.

"Who the fuck did?"

Simon and I are almost the same fucking height, but you'd never know from how small he looks now.

"I, uh… I don't know, boss," he stammers.

I walk over and grab his fucking shirt collar. "Then I think you know what your new motherfucking job is," I say through gritted teeth, "and if I were you, I'd get fucking started."

He nods vigorously as I release him and leaves the room without saying another word. I sink to the floor, holding my head in my hands. The hangover isn't to blame for the headache raging in my skull.

"No, no, no," I groan, lashing out at the fucking table. I rip the leg out from beneath it, flipping it over. I drag myself to my feet, chucking the overturned table against the wall, feeling no satisfaction when it splinters apart.

Oh god. Oh fucking god! This cannot be fucking true. I fucked everything up, Jesus, fuck, I destroyed everyfuckingthing that was good in my goddamn sick as shit life.

My throat burns, my eyes sting, and I empty my fucking stomach again.

She was telling the truth and I didn't believe her.

I humiliated her.

I dehumanized her.

I said the worst fucking shit imaginable to her. And it was all a mistake. My fucking mistake. This has to be some fucking nightmare I'll wake up from.

I stumble my way over to my closet, my chest seizing up at the very obviously empty half, throw on the first fucking things I grab, and scramble out of the house.

People look up at me from their knees like they're watching a lunatic. My mind races through anything, any fucking thing I could say or do to make this right. I feel sick as I remember the look on her face as I threw her fucking ring in the furnace. She begged me to think of our child, sobbing on the concrete, and I turned my back on her. Nothing I can do will make this right. But I have to fucking try.

A person is waiting impatiently outside the locked infirmary. I knock on the door, but it's clear from the light being off that Rori isn't inside.

I race through the compound again, hitting some bastard with the door to the Community Center when I fling it open.

When I make it to the room my stomach sinks. I push open the door, which was left unlocked, and stare into the almost completely empty fucking space.

She wouldn't. There's no fucking way.

I can barely breathe as I slam my fist against the cinder wall, not giving a fuck about anything as my knuckles split open. I finally glance up, struggling to catch my breath, and grab the only remaining item in the room from the shelf. Everything goes numb as I hold that fucking demented sock monkey to my chest.

An hour after the search of the compound finishes, Simon and Dwight look on in the conference room as I pick up my radio from the desk. "We've got an orange situation."

A/N: Next chapter we're back to Rori! Any guesses where she's gone to?