Eve's POV
Nothing strikes more fear into the heart's of men, than the unknown.
When people are afraid, they're irrational. But that can be used to your advantage, if you know the right points to press.
I didn't say a word, even with Daryl gone from the room.
Merely leaned against the table across the small room from Randall, and motioned for the boy to continue his babblings.
He didn't need much prompting as he rambled on for almost another two hours. Telling me about his group, and spilling more than he thought with his reckless language.
When you hear as much bullshit as I do, your skills of sorting through it max out.
Randall's not a great liar in the first place. Maybe good enough to fool some, but not someone as adept at taking cues from body language just as much as the actual words being said.
Some people aspire to this sort of skill, but it doesn't work quite like they think it does, I imagine.
Telling when someone is lying, is like speaking to someone whose native language is not your own. It's obvious when they mispronounce a word, or think it means something else, and you know that's not what they meant but you can pull from context to figure out what they're actually saying.
At least, that's how it is for me. I can't speak for anyone else. I am by no means a professional at this but I've been doing it for the better part of 20 years.
Just as I predicted, the kid's a lot more chatty now that Daryl's out of the room, and his face isn't being beaten in every ten seconds.
I don't have to do a thing to the boy, other than stare him down, listen.
If he strays from the information I'm after, all I have to do is give my blade a little twirl; let the steel catch the light and off he goes. Herding thoughts like cattle is easier than I thought it was gonna be.
This is why psychological warfare is so dangerous. And so much more effective.
I've been in the corner this whole time, listening, thinking. I knew torture wasn't gonna work. Torture never reveals solid info, but the anticipation of pain is much worse than pain itself.
Randall is all too talkative; I noticed it during Daryl's go at him.
He talks about as much as I don't. Even now, rambling on about some dog that inadvertently saved his life when all this started.
If I just let him talk and he'll give me anything I want. Whether he means to or not.
And the poor kid can finally rest.
It's been hard not getting involved up to this point. I was against hurting the boy from the start— still am.
Daryl's way is through his fist, mine is much less invasive. And leaves far less damage.
I only wish I could've used my way without Daryl having to scare the kid like this first.
I shouldn't have lost my head when he mentioned that little camp. I let Daryl beat on him when I shouldn't have.
I may not know what it's like to be in Randall's position, exactly, but I can't help putting myself in his shoes.
It's fairly obvious I'm the only one who's bothered to look at things from his point of view.
Otherwise the others wouldn't be so rough or suspicious of the kid. That in and of itself has its perks and drawbacks, but there's a difference between being cautious and what we've done to this boy.
These people Randall's betraying by talking to us, are the ones he's survived with.
He & his friends went to find some of their group that hadn't come back; just like anyone would. Only to find they'd been killed by a bunch a people in a bar.
Lost another friend not ten minutes into the shootout that followed.
His remaining buddy told him to jump from a rooftop and the kid piked his leg on a fence on the way down.
That same friend left him for dead. A person he trusted to watch his back and get all of them home safely, left him to be eaten alive.
That may be the reason he's giving us anything at all.
The people who could have left him to die, who he shot at and who murdered his friends, are the ones who saved him.
We were the only help he was gonna get and at least two of us, refused to leave him behind for the walkers. Whereas his own friend did exactly that.
That sort of betrayal is not something you forget. No matter how hard you try. There's always that little voice in the back of your mind, wondering when they're gonna do it again. Waiting for the moment they abandon you, and you prepare for it.
You're looking for it in everything they do; especially when stakes are high. You'd be stupid not to.
Us on the other hand... We patched his leg up after killing two— three of his friends and have been keeping him prisoner for days.
So we must want him alive, and now he finally knows why. Information.
He's been here, alone in this dark shack, day & night. Tied up, in pain, scared out of his wits every waking second. Wondering what's gonna happen to him.
Wondering which breath will be his last, what we planned to do to him, and somehow still managing to sleep; however little it might have been.
Not knowing if he's gonna live to see the sunrise again.
How a person thinks when they're afraid, is not difficult to work out.
It's easy to tell by the way he looks at the door. Watches the cold sunlight streaming between the cracks in the boards of this rickety place.
Praying to a god he may or may not even believe exists, that his people will somehow figure out he's still alive, where he is, and be so inclined to take on ludicrous amounts of danger from an unknown group of god knows how many people, to which they know nothing about, and rescue him.
Assuming his friend didn't just assume he's dead in the first place; But give me one reason why he wouldn't?
I'm positive Randall knows he's clinging to a delusion, but it's all he's got right now. Even though he knows there's better chance of having a snowball fight in Hell. (that'd be crazy awesome)
I know. I've been there.
This is how he's been living in this shed, while everyone out there argues amongst themselves about how scared they are, of him.
Right up until this morning, when an unknown man and a —maybe— somewhat familiar woman he once tried to kill, came in; with another set of unknowns for the day.
We spent the last hour interrogating him; beating information out of him when he didn't give it up.
When he finally started to cooperate, he was hit again.
What sort of message does that send? About what happens when he does talk, about his future, about his chances of avoiding more pain, —about us.
I know a lot about how people think.
He's not gonna be inclined to do us any favors if this treatment continues. And if his group is as tough as he claims, we're gonna need that help whether we like it or not.
Nevermind if we trust the kid or not.
People aren't stupid, but they are wired to their own primal instinct.
If you reward behavior, it's repeated. If you punish it, it's avoided or stops all together.
If doing something hurts bad enough, they'll avoid it any way they can; until dire circumstances befall them.
If something feels good enough, they'll do it 'till they drop. And some might even go so far as to do anything in their power to get it back. That's what we call addiction, and love.
Randall finally ran out of things the ramble about and a silence lulled for the first time this morning.
I took a breath, tucking my own mind wanderings away in order to organize everything I'd learned.
I haven't been listening too closely these last few minutes but I did tune in every few seconds but Randall gets side tracked a lot.
He's a nervous talker, that's for sure. I knew a few people like him back in the day.
He's looking at me now, with the eyes of a scared kid.
I don't know what everyone else is seeing when they look at him. But all I can see when I look at this teenager, is a scared kid in an insane world; whose lost more than anyone should have to bare but sadly most of us do these days.
I was one of the lucky ones. I had no family to lose, nor any close friends to worry about. Nobody but my lonesome to look for.
When all of us were chucked into the deep end with this, I just started swimming.
It's too easy to forget sometimes, that most were not so lucky.
I pushed off the table and Randall tried to move back from me. He flinched as I crouched in front of him; trying to be slow and predictable to not scare him anymore than we already have.
"Please don't hit me" he whimpered, and my jaw tightened.
For my own sake, I'm gonna pretend those words didn't stir an unpleasant place in my memory.
I pulled a little white pill out of my pocket.
Rick & the others won't be happy if they find out I snagged this from the house when everyone was asleep; quick & quiet. But I had to.
"Whoa whoa hey— hey— hey—" Randall started to freak out as I chopped a sliver off; Using both hands in a see-saw motion on my blade to make a clean cut.
I took the silver with careful fingers and dropped it into my mouth to show it was okay, just like I did with the water yesterday, before taking the rest between my forefinger & thumb, and holding it out.
"For the pain."
His startled look is one I'm used to but I'm pretty sure this kid's heard me speak before(lucky him). I think he was just expecting something different. Granted he was bogged out of his mind in desperation & pain the last time.
Brown eyes flickered between mine and the pill for two lengthy seconds before hesitantly leaning forward, and I dropped it into his mouth.
I stood, grabbing the water bottle off the table and gave him a drink; trying to avoid as many of the cuts littering the kid's mouth as I could.
I waited patiently, until he'd drunk almost the entire bottle, before screwing the cap back on and setting it back where I found it.
I pulled a granola bar from my jacket pocket. It isn't much but I managed to swipe it at breakfast. Took it out of my own share of food, but I can afford to do so right now.
We've got plenty to eat on the farm at the moment. Surrounded by growing fresh greens, woods for hunting, and animals that provide steady enough streams of edibles.
Put it together and it's enough to keep us all fed for the time being.
I don't have much of a choice with how the others treat him right now, but I can at least do this much.
I'm not gonna sit back while a teenager —scared out of his mind— is held captive, abused, and fear for his life, while he's forced to live out things that would make even full grown adults cry.
It makes me sick.
It makes me sicker there's not much I can do about it right now. My opinion may carry some weight with the others but not that much. No one puts someone else's opinion above their own, and this is one of those things where everyone has something to say and they all think they're right.
That's part of why I've held off until now, because I wanted to save my opinion for when it counts. And yesterday was supposed to be the end of it.
He was supposed to be free of us. Of these headless chickens chasing their tails, vying for control over one another, just so they can feel a little better about the state of the world.
They were supposed to chill the Hell out with him gone, but that changed when they brought him back.
I changed my mind when they came back, he was still with them, and another reason for them to lose their goddamn minds over one stupid teenager, cropped up.
I spent the better part of last night sitting on a log at the main camp's burnt out fire pit, in the dark. And all I could think about was the night terror I thought I'd left in the dust long ago.
About the time I myself —a child— was locked in a dark shed all through the night, while everyone else was tucked up safe in bed. Because I was just another mouth to feed to them.
"What's gonna happen to me…?"
My hand reached for his shoulder on it's own. I honestly don't have an answer.
I don't like not having answers.
I'm no exception from the fear of the unknown. But I'm the type of person who will do anything in my power to figure it out.
That's exactly what I'm gonna try to do for him.