My first impression of the Sanctuary was that it looked a hell of a lot like the prison. There were walkers being utilized as added security around the perimeter. Interesting idea, I thought, and wondering if eventually that would be my purpose.
As we entered the gates, flashes of my life before, at the prison threatened to overwhelm me. Lori's death. Blood. Judith's birth. Blood. Dad's descent into madness. Blood. Daryl's pain when Merle was gone. Blood. The Governor's last stand. Blood. Every memory that came to me was tinged in the surreal redness of the blood that was spilled. And my eyes were drawn to Negan's bat. Still coated in Abraham's blood and brain matter. I realized that I was wrong. There were two certainties in our world. Death and blood.
I paid little attention to the people around us, but when I refocused, fighting back against the tide of memories I noticed that along the path Negan was leading me was lined by kneeling people. Fear radiated off these people, but also awe. They were in awe of him.
I followed him. Not too closely, but close enough so I could keep up without jogging. He was whistling as he walked. As though this happened everyday. Him returning with that bat coated in gore, a stranger in tow, and not a care in the world.
Inside the utilitarian building, he kept moving. Forward momentum, full steam ahead. Purposeful. And still, as he walked, people kneeled. As naturally as I drew breath in my lungs, as unthinking as I'd been walking through life, they fell to their knees and stayed there until he was out of view.
Soon we were in a nicely decorated room filled with attractive women in short black dresses. I had walked behind him, back straight, chin up, and I didn't drop my posture when I followed him into what I could only believe was his harem. They greeted him. They fawned over him. And they paid me no attention, as though my being there was normal. Or as though I was invisible. Their conversation was an annoying buzz in my head, nothing more.
I didn't care what they were saying, or offering to my new keeper. I was still fighting the rush of pain that had surfaced with the similarities of this place to another. And when that door was opened, so where the other ones. More loss. More pain. More blood. It was almost overwhelming. And yet, noticing that no one seemed to see anything amiss with me, I had to think that my mask had returned. That no one could see the pain that memories were dealing me. Worse than the losses, the flashes of the happiness I'd once had. The hope that I'd held so deeply. The love I'd shared with Daryl.
"Ladies," his voice, so commanding and deep, drew me away from my inner turmoil. "This," I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Is Jessica. Jessica, I'd like you to meet my wives."
Harem. I kept my eyes forward, waiting for him to decide what came next for me. I wasn't planning on befriending these women. I'd seen, when I'd allowed myself to focus on them, that I bore no resemblance to them. We shared nothing but our gender.
One wife stepped forward. Her movement, coming closer, reminded me of my past. My ability to read people, once upon a time, and decide if danger was in front of me. She didn't look formidable. Or dangerous. But hadn't we all learned that monsters often had the faces of angels?
"Jessica," her voice was quiet and she was looking at me like someone might study a caged or trapped animal, deciding on my danger. "I'm Sherry."
My eyes were on hers, and I gave a curt nod. And? I wanted to know. You're Sherry. I'm Jessica. What did it matter?
Negan was waiting. What he was waiting for I had no clue. Did he imagine me feral? Did he expect me to lash out? Did he want me to?
"Come," he said, finally breaking the silence that had once again fallen around me. "Jessica," he offered, believing that I hadn't understood he meant me. "Come with me, sweetheart." There was another term of endearment. He'd done it a few times now, but this time I heard it. Really heard it.
I followed him. Another room. Still nice, even lavish decor. And a huge bed. I huffed out a breath. A bedroom? My eyes landing on the subtle touches that told me whose. A pair of leather gloves on the table between chairs. The hint of a t-shirt hanging loose out of the chest of drawers. Negan's room, obviously.
He took the seat facing the door and pointed at the one facing his. I sat down. My eyes locked on his. The bat was leaning against his chair. "Now we're face to face, and on the same level." He took in my small stature. "Well, almost."
I settled in for more conversation. Is it conversation? If a man who you don't know asks if you're suicidal, is that really chit chat?
"There's something about you, Jessica Grimes." He was studying me again. Full on. No need for side-eye now. His eyes locked on mine, and I waited. "What broke you?"
And there it was. A complete stranger removed my mask. "Who says I'm broken?" If I wouldn't tell Dad, why would I tell you?
"Your eyes." He wasn't digging. He was sure. "Your body and your posture, even your words. They make a good show. But your eyes? It's clear as a fucking bell."
I didn't answer. What was the question? Why would I deny it? Or confirm it? What's the point?
"How long?" And once again, I knew that he wasn't asking something as simple as the words implied. How long have I been like this? How long since I started going through the motions, a puppet in life, pretending that surviving was living? How long had it been since I'd felt something as strongly as what I felt that led me to that clearing? To him?
"I'm not sure." And I wasn't. It had been subtle. I'd kept it at bay. I'd fought it. And yet, one day there it was.
He nodded. He seemed to understand, which made as much sense as him caring did. "You need rest." It wasn't an order, it was a comment. "Rest, a check up with my doctor, and food." His eyes roamed over my body, and I wondered why he'd think I'd need food. "Come here."
He stood up and offered me his hand. Taking it, with more confusion than I'd allowed to show since I'd walked out into the open, he helped me to my feet. I guess that my shirt had raised, and he saw that I was armed. Knife and gun, they were pretty much my only wardrobe accessories.
"You've been armed this entire time and didn't try to fucking kill me?" He asked, pulling them both from their usual places. I felt more naked without them, than I ever had without my clothes. "Why?"
Whatever he'd planned for that had made him help me to my feet, it was postponed. Why hadn't I attacked him? Why hadn't I tried to use my weapons to free my family? Why, when alone and on the road with him, hadn't I fought him? Blindsided him and taken him down?
"I don't know." And I didn't. There was a time, long long ago, that Jessica Grimes wouldn't have hesitated. She would have drawn the gun and killed him stone cold dead. I thought I knew that Jessica. I guess she really was gone now.
He looked unnerved. A look that I imagined I'd shown when I saw Lizzie holding Judith's mouth shut with her hands, as my baby sister started to turn blue. Fear. That's what I saw on his face. Fear. But was he afraid of me, or for me?
