There were very few people that Negan would allow to walk into his room without knocking or calling ahead first. Sagira had become one of those people, though Negan found himself wishing it wasnât always that wayâ because this time, sheâd done it while he was changing shirts.
He froze once he heard her step into the room, his discarded shirt held far too tightly in his clenched fist and his head ducked down, almost as if he were⊠ashamed of what Sagira was seeing.
His back was littered with scars. Some were straight, some diagonal, some curved. All of them were the same width, but different lengths, having been made by the same tool, but at different times. The only thing on his back that wasnât a scar was a nameâ âLucilleâ, written in fancy cursive on an unmarred patch of skin on his right shoulder.
He was silent for onceâ the last person to see his scars was, indeed, Lucille, but she was dead. And Negan didnât know if his scars would make Sagira think less of him or not.
she was hurt. one of neganâs guys had made an attempt to smack her ass, and she was sure to turn around and give him the what for. in spite of her successful retaliation, the guy had landed a wicked right hook into her jaw. petal soft lip was busted from the impact, red liquid trickling down her chin in a skinny thread.
sagira had made way for the alphaâs quarters, pressing her palm into the broadside of the door-- nails scraped against the peeling paint of the wood and once it was ajar she glanced up from the ground.
â hey boss, i just wanted to let you know-- â words became choked in her throat, as if sheâd lost any ability to find the proper sentence sheâd been hoping to string together. mouth remained apart for a moment, taking in the scene in front of her caught her train of thought in a bind. the manâs back was littered in so many abrasions. risen tender flesh that was strewn across every inch of his back, each one more violent looking than the last.
what was there to say? she suffocated on the silence, and the realization of what sheâd just walked in on began to sink in. it left a [bitter] taste on her tongue. and it was safe to say, it wasnât the iron of her blood.
instinctively, the girl inched closer-- lifting a hand to run her delicate fingertips along one of the bigger scars-- tracing the outline of what mustâve been made by a [damn]Â leather belt. inhaling sharply, she pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth and winced before speaking.
â h-how did this happen? i shouldnât have come in without-- â halting in her fumbling inquiry, ari covered her mouth with one hand whilst the other remained tenderly placed on his lower back. â negan . . . â