by W. A. R.
“Amber?” George asked, turning to face her. She looked up at him and nodded, acknowledging the first word that he had spoken to her since she woke. Swallowing back the bile that had risen in her mouth, she stepped forward, catching up to him as he waited on her. Once she was to his left, he fell into pace with her, again not speaking. She felt disheartened by his lack of conversation, and yet she couldn’t blame him. Selfishly, she didn’t want to be alone with her own thoughts; she didn’t like them much anymore, not since three days prior.
‘We have done good, sis. Real good’
‘Harbor that anger, because one day it will benefit you…use it as an asset…but don’t let it lead you away from where you belong with your family. Don’t let it lead you away from me…’
‘I swear, you and your brother are the two most optimistic, friendly people that I have ever met and these past two days you two have really been off of your game. You are Miss Brightside…so…brighten the hell up.’
Their voices rang out in her ears like a prayer, urging her forward. They were still alive and she was going to get back to them. She had to, and for that to happen, she needed to do exactly what their every word of advice ever was. Glancing over at George, she saw the turmoil rolling across his features and his green eyes flashing like a sea during a storm. He was so immensely troubled and she wished to take it away. She wasn’t sure what to say to do so, however, and so she remained quiet in their walk, him directing their lead to a table pressed against the outer right side of the barn. On the table she saw her guns and her knife and she released a heavy breath of relief at knowing that none of her weapons were within distance of Damien. Once they reached the table, she reached for the guns, sliding them and her knife into her holster before she turned to address George.
“How is he this morning?” she asked lowly, as if worried she would startle him. He turned his green eyes up to her and brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck absently.
He shrugged. “He’s fine. Hungry, thirsty, hurting…I gave him some water earlier.” he said all of this with no emotion and Amber felt herself grow worried. She placed both hands on her hips and glanced sidelong at the closed barn doors. There were no cries or screams to be heard, and with a disgusted thought at the monster she had become, she knew it had to be because she was no longer in there to frighten him, to hurt him.
“I’ll feed him and give him water whenever I feel is necessary.” She said, hoping to make him wait just a bit longer; to have him keep the putrid taste of his blood in the back of his throat until she could find it in herself to oblige his own primal needs. She sighed, shaking her head. He wanted away from those thoughts. “Thank you…for helping with him.” Amber said, noticing the gash on his arm as he lowered his hand to shove it into his pocket. She winced. “I hurt you.” She groaned. “Dammit, George…I am so sorry I did that and I apologize for passing out like I did. You must think…” she began rambling to her friend whenever the air was rushed from her lungs. She gasped, feeling his arms embrace her waist tightly and he lowered his head to settle next to hers. Her eyes widened in initial response but after a moment she closed them, bringing her own arms around to encircle his shoulders, his neck. It reminded her of when he first recognized her, all of those months ago. It seemed so far away and yet as if it had only occurred yesterday. She found peace in it and she inhaled deeply, remaining calm, quiet, and comforted in his hold.
After a long moment he decided to speak. “Stop apologizing. I’m stronger than I look.” He informed her playfully, though it didn’t meet his eyes. Still, he was trying and she respected that. He understood that her thoughts tortured her, her memories haunting her and drawing on every breath she took. If she let it continue, they would take her last breath away from her with her own hand. She refused to even consider it getting that far. “I’m just glad you are finally awake. You were exhausted and…” he hesitated, pulling back from her and she felt a flush crawl up her neck. She looked away from him and to the distant sky over the wall.
“Mentally worn. I know; you don’t even have to say it.” She said willingly offering up a finish to his sentence. He curled his upper lip up in disgust at her words but she knew that he had had been thinking the same thing. Her mind hadn’t been able to focus. In fact, the entire day before was a bit blurry and unsure, but she could grasp the pieces of the nightmarish hell she imagined and put together everything that had occurred.
“Did Buddy tell you what we came up with?” George asked, shifting on his feet and rounding the table cautiously. Amber nodded, turning to spare a look at the house, where there was obvious movement about. She watched as Rick ambled out of the back door, his limp still visible, but not as profound as it had been only two days before. It had been six weeks, give or take, and though she could reason that he was mostly healed, he was still healing and he wanted to hide it, be stronger, if only for his own redemption. She shook her head. No, that wasn’t the case. He had cried upon hearing Miles’s words of Brian’s forgiveness. He wanted his family back, just as she did. “Amber?” George called out and she jerked her gaze to him, realizing belatedly that she had not answered him. He had one eyebrow raised in attention, looking at her dead on with both palms spread flat on the table. Guns and knives precariously littered the table and she wondered when he had done that.
“Yeah…yeah, Buddy told me. I told him that it sounded good. He went to wake everyone else.” She stated, throwing her thumb over her shoulder towards the house. “He’ll come get us whenever we are ready to leave. I…” she paused. Why did she pause? Was she hesitant of speaking to George about her plans of speaking to Damien? She knew the answer, though; he knew how to make her find what she was feeling, what she was thinking and truth be told, she didn’t want to know the answer just yet. It would either hurt too much…or surprise her. She wanted neither; either of them would only serve in angering her. She sighed, knowing there was no getting out of it. “I was going to speak to Damien before we left.” She admitted, turning from him quickly and facing the doors. Rick was fast approaching and she didn’t want him to see the damage done; the mess and stink of torture that was sure to be found once she opened the door.
“The notebook is in there.” He paused, stealing a glance at her as she stood before the doors. “He can’t speak, if you remember.” George quipped, turning his focus to checking the chamber of a bolt action rifle. She grimaced inwardly at his words. He wasn’t goading her, and he certainly wasn’t trying to make her feel guilty; in fact, he approved of her actions. But his words held a hint of…something else. It reminded her a little…only a little…. of the person she was before she lost so much so damn quickly. Hell, maybe that small moral part of her was still there and unwittingly, she also knew it led her directly to the barn doors where Damien sat inside.
Murderer.
Conspirator.
Betrayer.
“Neither can the dead.” She countered, turning her attention back to the door before her.
She hated him; hated everything about him and she couldn’t help but seethe inside in fury. She hated the fact that his blood and vomit still coated her skin and her clothes, putrid with the stink of remorse. Still, there was something within her that urged her hand to shove the heavy door open and step inside, closing it behind her. For a brief moment, she stood in the dark, shoulders squared and tense, as if he could still, in some miraculous way, hurt her; destroy her more than she already was. It was ridiculous, really, and she knew he could do no such thing, but the fear was still there. As she drew her eyes up to him, she felt a shudder rip through her. He sat in the chair as before, the only difference was that his broken bones were wrapped, and what was left of his fingers were as well. She grimaced at the brutality of it all, and the small slivers of sunlight that crept through the rotting wood seemed to taunt her, making the image more grotesque. She was amazed at what she had done and yet disgusted all at once, proud and yet reserved. She was torn between admiring her work and hating hersel
f for it. Monster.
She trailed her eyes up from the floor, noting the chair and his feet sitting motionless in what had been a large pool of his blood mixed with vomit, now dried. The knuckle length pieces of his fingers still rested on the floor at his feet, and his tongue by the chair leg; his ear was on his leg. The tools were all gone by then, and she saw only the other chair and the table left. She hesitated in moving, watching him, waiting to see if he would even acknowledge her. He sat with his hands clenched, his breathing slow and steady, his head lowered. What was he doing? Was he looking at how his blood dried in crusts at his feet? Was he trying to drive into memory how it felt to have your clothes sticky and stiff with your own vomit, blood, and sweat? Was he crying remorseful tears or was he overwhelmed at the smell of decay that surrounded him? She wrinkled her nose at the scent; the same smell that she had found on herself just minutes before whenever she had woken up. His head never rose, and she wondered if he even knew she was in there. The bigger part of her hoped that he was in so much torment that he couldn’t tell reality from imagination. She wasn’t sure what to think of him, whether to contain her anger or question why she was even there to begin with.
Finally, Rick’s voice outside talking to George spurred her into action and she stepped forward. Her foot slid across the dirty floor, scraping and drawing attention to herself. The reaction was almost immediate. His head snapped up and his eyes dilated, widened in fear, his lips pressed together in a thin line. His breathing became heavy and though he tried to move, he couldn’t. He began shaking his head, mumbling something incoherently, desperately. His hands clenched into fists and he rocked his head back and forth, crying. Swallowing, Amber stepped forward slowly, studying him, watching him.
Murderer.
Conspirator.
Betrayer.
The cruel names pulled at her and slowly she circled him, watching him struggle. She was unsure of what she was feeling then; satisfaction? Disgust? Both? It didn’t matter. It never did. He was immobile, basically paralyzed and he was under her control. Briefly, she wondered how it was that he had gotten drawn into this entire thing. He had never seemed like a bad guy; reserved and uncertain, sure, but never like an enemy. But he was now; he was the enemy and he could never take back any of the things that he had done. Still, the question nagged at her like a disease: How did he get drawn into this? The boss, president, dictator…whatever in the hell the fool wanted to call himself, was his father. He could have stayed and risked someone else’s life for this. So…why not? Why get thrown into the middle of it all?
She didn’t bring herself to ask any of these questions, however; she couldn’t. She was too heated and curious to even bother herself with the mundane task of asking. Instead, she turned the other chair to face him, her movements so slow that it terrified him and she knew it. She took a twisted pleasure in seeing it. Her eyes were riveted to him as his breathing grew even more shallow. She lowered herself into the seat, leaning forward and placing her elbows on her knees. She stared hard at him, and he did the same to her. Fascination was in her eyes, and terror in his. Every so often, his eyes would dart to the door behind them, as if hoping that someone, anyone else would come through that door. He didn’t want to be alone with her and for some reason that realization made her smile a little. This only seemed to heighten his fear and he began whimpering, trying to talk with a tongue that was no longer there. Finally, she sighed and leaned back, searching the table for the notebook and pen that George had told her was in the barn. After a moment she spotted it behind her, and turning meticulously she grabbed it and held it tightly in her hands. She didn’t give it to him just then; she was unsure whether she even wanted to at all.
She pinned him motionless with her stare. “Good morning.” She said lowly, her voice rough and her mouth having gone dry. She licked her lips and the action seemed to make him angry, hurt him worse and again, there was the war between satisfaction and disgust within herself that made her straighten in her seat. She tilted her head to the side, cracking her neck and feeling the release of the action before she finally looked back at Damien. She cleared her throat. “I see Katie doctored you like I asked.” She said, forcing herself to sound even the slightest bit civil. He studied her, his breathing slowing, if only slightly. She shifted in her seat, feeling the hilt of her knife move against her thigh, and the handle of Miles’s guns dig into her waist. “I would have come with her to assist with your…injuries…but, you see, you were far from my first priority. Sadly, I was still coming to terms with my son’s untimely death and trying to find a way to rescue the others that you took from me.” She informed him bitterly. It wasn’t a complete lie; she had done just that before her body informed her that she could no longer take what the world was throwing at her. He had the grace to look at her dead in her eye, guilt washing over him, and tears fell from his eyes.
This struck her, angered her, and she tensed. She couldn’t read him; she was desperate to see what she wanted to see. She didn’t want to see his guilt. She wanted to witness his anger at her, his unadulterated thirst for retribution. She wanted him to hate her. She needed him to hate her because if he felt remorse, well…then didn’t that make her a monster? Her body trembled as they watched one another, Amber unsure what to say and Damien unable to say anything. A minute passed, and then two, before she finally dropped the notebook into her lap and reached forward. He jerked back with her sudden movement, wincing and crying out a little as his broken bones shifted. She paused, glancing up at him. Her hands were poised, hovering over the strap of his right hand…the only good, working limb he had left. His eyes had widened once more and his chest was heaving, nostrils flaring with every breath. Slowly, she dropped her hands, working with the strap. There was no denying the fever that was wracking his body, or the cold sweat that drifted from his brow to his chin. He kept his mouth closed tightly, as if he believed that opening would cause her to take away what she already had. The strap gave way and she pulled the leather belt to her lap. She watched quietly as he studied her, his gaze darting from her to his freed hand. He wanted to move it, she could tell, but he was afraid to.
She nodded at him. “Go ahead.” She answered his unspoken question and reluctantly, he lifted his arm and closed his hand into a fist before releasing it, flexing his fingers. She stared, watching as he sighed in relief and watched his own hand in amazement. His eyes would close for a few seconds here and there as he stretched his tired arm until finally he lowered and looked at Amber. She knew that look. ‘Now what?’ He seemed to ask her and she extended the notebook towards him, setting it gently on his legs. He winced as she did so, her hand brushing against his knee. She then handed him the pen and he seemed hesitant to take it. If she could have looked up at him then, she would have seen him shaking his head in protest. She cleared her throat. “Take the damn thing. I’m not pressing you for any more information.” She bit out and he jumped at her tone of voice, taking the pen from her hand. She sighed then, leaning back against the chair. One task completed. Why did this seem so hard? It was difficult enough for her to be some semblance of the word decent to this creature, this loathsome abomination to humankind, but she was trying. But why? Why in the world would she even want to be? She didn’t know, and she tried not question it. Her faith was what held her there before him. She was being taught something and she just wasn’t sure what. He studied her for a moment before placing pen against the paper, his hand moving delicately. After a moment, he turned the notebook to face her.
What do you want with me?
It was a good question, one she was sure she couldn’t very well answer right then. And so, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees and fingers laced together. She turned to look at the very uninteresting wall as she couldn’t bring her gaze to meet his. “I’m not sure.” She finally admitted honestly, turning back to glance at his hand as he scribbled once more across the paper.
Then why are you here?
She shrugged. “Your guess is as
good as mine.” And there it was: the surprise and the anger. He thought she was toying with him and that brought a smug grin to her cracked and dry lips. She lifted a brow at him. “Are you scared, Damien?” Hesitation and then more restless scribbling.
Yes.
She pursed her lips and nodded at this, her head throbbing dully. “Good.” She replied and then she lowered her head, contemplating what to say next, what to do. Dammit! Why was she even there?! “Do you understand what you have done to me?” she asked suddenly, her mind not filtering the words before they escaped her lips. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t angry…merely curious. After a moment, she lifted her head to see him pointing to something he had already written on the paper.
Yes.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek until the metallic taste of blood brought her back to reality. “Tell me…what have you done to me?” And at this he was quick in writing but hesitant about showing her. The remorse in his eyes as he wrote his reply almost made her blind with fury. Finally, with sorrowful eyes he turned the notebook to face her.
I have broken you.
His words sliced through her and she had to turn away from him. “You’ve got that right.” She murmured under her breath, and he sighed, letting her know that he had heard her. She pulled her hands apart, rubbing her open palms across her knees. She heard him scribbling on the notepad, but it wasn’t until it stopped did she turn to look at him.
May I have some water?
She nearly choked, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. Of course he was thirsty. He had a hard time swallowing even his own saliva. But still, that rationality, that forgiving nature was overruled by something more sinister. “After everything you have done to me, do you think you deserve my kindness?” she asked incredulously. He certainly couldn’t be serious. But he was, and his eyes brimmed with remorseful tears once more before he began writing.
