Wrath
when anger is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury
Home.
It was gone. Ripped away from his hands and lost to the vast miles that separated him from them. His family. His friends. The love of his life.
Michonne.
She was home. His guiding light. His reason for living. Plans of a beautiful future together shattered to mere shards of empty hope.
With each passing year, the memory of her became so delicate he could only summon it in the gentlest of dreams. He prayed to a god he knew couldn't exist, aching to salvage the time he spent without her, yearning to hold her once again. He'd give his life to feel her heart pressed against his cheek and inhale her sweet scent of promise. He'd go to hell and back just to hear her eternal faith in them whispered in his ear in earnest; we're the ones who live.
Her embrace never came. Her voice vanished with his certainty of seeing her once again. The warmth and color she'd brought to his life faded into shadows of gray and gloom. Her fierce words lost their veracity and floated away as if in a distant dream.
The day came when he couldn't summon her from his memory. He cried until his throat was raw. He was granted mercy one night and rewarded with a soft dream of her. He desperately clutched at the whispers of her and trapped them within the walls of his hardening heart. He'd once told her he could lose her but reality had shown him he couldn't bear the thought of letting her go.
Once he hid her away from the ravages of time, anger washed over his broken soul and took the place of his faith. Rage choked every second of his imposed life. Every breath that passed his lips was a betrayal. He'd given his life to protect what he'd found. He should be in pieces on that riverbank, he accepted it as destiny when he pulled the trigger. But fate was a faithless cheat, finding her satisfaction in his misery.
Life without his family was no life at all. It was an endless chasm of emptiness. No joy. No love. An existence without purpose. He knew he had his share of fuck ups but he found no justification in the loss he had to suffer once again.
Why him? Why did it have to be him every fucking time?
He spent his waking moments maddened by his powerlessness. He slaughtered without mercy, bathing in the blood of the living and the dead, red haze numbing the sensations of his humanity. He cut down every obstacle in front of him, his conscience lacking the compassion he'd once fought to maintain.
Fuck mercy. Life never showed him any. Mercy wouldn't bring her back to him. He would kill every last walker on this godforsaken earth to get back to her. He'd rip out the throats of every last poor bastard who stood in his way. He'd find her again. He'd fight with every last breath to find her. And if he lost who he was in the process, it would be worth the sacrifice.
Signal murder coat, tight shirt, wild beard Rick lol.
Hello again! It's been a while since I've updated this series. This story felt like a way for me to channel the anger I felt at the show. Two years of Negan. Two years of a suffering Richonne. And then not even half a season of depressing foreshadowing before Rick was violently taken away in front of a powerless Michonne. OMG! Why?!
But in the end, it was what it was and there was nothing I could do to change it. And so here we are.
Anyway, I hope the next and final sin puts you in a better mood!
Thanks for sticking around!
Your wrathful writer,
semul