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It was grief.
The car ride had passed entirely in silence after Hershel’s outburst and she couldn’t think of anything to say to change the air. She’d hadn’t been expecting it— to say the least. It had been over a week without her son— and she’d imagined it a dozen times in dreams and daydreams and carefully crafted plans— what it would be like to get him back. None of these feelings had been in those. She worried the worn steering wheel— hands stuck at ten and two like she could push her palms straight through the plastic to the metal underneath if she just tried hard enough. Words bubbled— both in her mouth and in her mind— but when she caught sight of Hershel’s turned away face in the rear view mirror; that made her think twice about it.
What was there to say?
As soon as the tires halted in the familiar gravel of The Bricks— he was gone; he slammed the car door and mumbled something haughtily under his breath before his feet stomped off and away. Pleas for a conversation died before they ever met her lips. She had nearly gone after him— something in her chest screaming not to let him out of her sight again but Maggie was aware it’d end worse than their first conversation had. Frustration pooled in her gut and she wondered distantly if all conversations with her son would go this way from here on out? Even before the Croat came— emotions were high. Hershel wouldn’t tell her what was wrong but anytime she pushed or prodded, his anger flared and Maggie only caught her own reflection in the backlash.
She’d never meant to do this alone— that thought circulating in her brain so frequently in the earliest days of Hershel’s life. When he wouldn’t latch or he caught a cold and cried all night— when he screamed his little lungs out for her and Maggie waited for some motherly instinct to just kick in and give him what he needed. Motherhood had always been described as an inconceivable notion— the feeling of always doing what was best— what was right. Maggie would kill for her son— she had and she would continue to should the world force her hand— but she felt like she may never, ever truly know what he needed.
Maybe in a normal world, she’d pick up the phone and call her dad?
The thought alone made her choke back a sob. An old wound grazed with a sharp blade and the blood just poured. The sound was violent— like the first roll of thunder and just the action of keeping it at bay made her chest ache. Her hand rushed to her mouth, lips pressed together tightly and she stared at the roof of the stained car upholstery; blinking, willing the blurriness down, down and away. Air was scarce too— pulling in a breath from her nose but it stuttered the way marbles would scatter down staircases. It hiccuped, making her chest rise and fall faster and the action only got worse the more she tried to control it.
“Mother.. fucker!” Maggie yelled, hand pulling from her mouth around a closed fist as she drilled it into the radio. It didn’t work anyhow— and it never would again as the plastic snapped in places and bent in others. Her hand screamed from the assault and her eyes shut tight, wetting both sets of lashes as she punched again and again—- a howl ripped from her, deep in the place inside of her all pain originated and now up and out her throat.
This was grief, she reminded herself.
She’d spent many years trying to master the feeling that it almost felt second hand. As easy to feel as a breeze. She was no stranger to loss. No, even as a child, Maggie had known loss the way most little girls in her hometown felt they knew Jesus Christ. She’d been young when she lost her mother. Older, of course when her mother actually died but the woman she knew, the bright, shining woman who birthed her, was gone far before the hospital bed in the guest bedroom. Far before the smell of rubbing alcohol had replaced the rose water she wore everyday. The marriage between her parents died first though. Maggie had spent more than a handful of nights in her parents bed before the end. They’d fight, cry, yell– and even if it took her father until the early mornings to return to their marital bed– so long as Josephine didn’t lock him out– he’d never sleep away from her. Maggie would crawl into their bed on those nights– quiet as a mouse, her small hands holding one of theirs in each as she laid between them– hoping that if she stayed as still as possible all night long– they’d wake up and stay together; because of her.
Hershel was a religious man, fond of the church at the end of the dirt road where their farm laid. The same church they’d had Josephine’s funeral– and a couple years later– his marriage to Annette. Loss crippled her back then. She’d lash out at Shawn, at Annette, at her Daddy– for leaving her feeling stuck being the only one with these terrible emotions. And like some lightbulb had turned on for him, Hershel introduced her to the hayloft. The man hadn’t been too good at emotional gestures– nor did he know how to help a young girl through the loss of her mother and the end of a marriage she was too young to have witnessed so first hand. But having space to break had been good for Maggie. She used it sporadically throughout the years, nestled in the little window that overlooked the whole farm and she’d just stare at the sky, talking to a God she wasn’t sure was listening. Other nights she’d drag up old beer bottles from the trash and smash them until there was nothing but the fine dust of brown and green and a more empty feeling that nestled into her guts.
The spot was her’s– and her’s alone– even if her Daddy had laid it with his own two hands. But when Beth came along, Maggie’s rage quelled for a while. Annette used to say that her baby sister would follow her around like a duckling– and Beth looked the part too. Bright gold hair and a wobble in her walk for a long time after most babies had it. She’d been too small to join Maggie in the hayloft for many years. Their Daddy made it clear that if she fell, the whole hayloft would be demolished and Maggie just couldn’t risk it.
So it simply evolved. Beth would sit on the barn floor and Maggie, up in the loft. The two girls would talk with the brunette’s chin tucked over the wood, and they even had a pulley system to trade toys, crayons, and all the other delicacies of childhood. By the time Beth became safe enough around ladders, the two made the spot their own and they would sneak up there to carve who knows what into the soft pine. Dumb things that seven and thirteen year old girls liked to write– like the names they’d call the new foal in the fall if their Daddy ever let them pick. Their celebrity names, of course, for when they got discovered, singing and dancing in the county faire. Sometimes, even the names of boys in their school who weren’t the absolute worst– though those were few and far between. Maggie always held the knife when they were together. Beth– too small, too young, too clumsy with the blade for the older girl to ever feel safe handing it over. Or maybe it was just one of the perks of being older. Like getting to press all the elevator buttons first– like getting shotgun in Otis’ truck when Maggie was big enough.
Beth had barely made it to “big enough”. The idea of her baby sister always remaining so made Maggie’s heart twist.
The last time she had laid eyes on her, Beth was luke-warm and she just looked asleep. Her eyes shut with pretty pale lashes laid across her cheeks, her lips parted like she’d pull in a breath at any time. Maggie pushed the hair from her forehead, eyes refusing to be pulled towards the bright red that caught on her fingers. She didn’t get to bury her Daddy— but somehow putting Beth in the ground felt worse than not. Maggie felt like she was nine years old all over again, tossing another hand full of dirt over the body of a woman she loved.
For a girl who always ached to be alone with her feelings– it felt the universe had tricked her into making a terrible wish. Like a genie— instead of giving her what she really wanted, this all seemed like a test to show her how utterly painful it was not to have a single soul to speak to about the anguish that had so solidified itself into her bones.
The hayloft was burnt to a pile of ash, her mother deep in a grave she’d never put flowers at again. Her father’s head and body were on opposite sides of a field filled with the bones and gore of those responsible sprinkled in the distance between. Her sister— her baby sister; in a shallow grave she barely knew the location of anymore.
Her home was empty until grief arrived once again. Lingering in her parlor like an overdue house guest, borrowing one cup of sugar too many— until one thing led to the next and Maggie had invited him to stay, if only not to wake up alone again tomorrow. He’d cozy up in her attic, just out of sight— but once in a while, she’d hear footsteps upstairs and be reminded of a time when the house was full and that was almost enough.
Maybe it was never grief, but always rage wearing a grief sized coat, biding his time. Waiting for her to feel nothing else but loss as wrath bubbled up in the spot she used to hold her immense care.
The palm of Maggie’s hand smacked down on the dash, the feeling reverbing up into her bones and her feet thrashed in the bucket seat, the mat kicking up, gas, break– both making a mechanical squeak even if the car had long been shut off. The crying didn’t stop– in fact it got harder, ripping sobs up from her throat as she cried like she hadn’t cried in years. A bloody cry. A cry that assured her that she’d wake with a sore throat if she could even manage to go to sleep in the first place.
How many families had she lost to this world? And everyday somehow, the world found even more to take and she was beginning to feel a growing pit inside of her that she thought may never close. Of course she was angry– what else was there to feel when every other sensation was swallowed up? Angry felt safe, vengeance felt safe– because it felt like she didn’t have anything to lose. But how wrong she was.
Hershel– her baby– maybe he didn’t hate her yet, but he was starting to. She’d pushed through this world for the last fifteen years with the idea that she needed to do it for him– make the world safe for him– and yet he told her point blank to her face today that in her crusade to keep fate from touching him the way it had destroyed her; she’d lost all sight of him. Instead– her fear and sadness grew like a tumor– and did what it always did. It was swallowed, consumed, and spat back out as rage. The woman had become mad at the world for what it had robbed her of– but the world was a hell of a lot bigger and meaner than she was– so she had to settle for the creator of the manifestation of her loneliness and it took up every waking thought.
When she had lost her mother, she had her family to lean back on. When she lost her father, she had Beth. When Beth died, she had Glenn; and while that never made it better— it sure as hell was more than nothing.
Never in her life had she ever met another human being so capable of kindness– and she was sure now– even so many years later, that she never would. When Glenn smiled and laughed, Maggie saw a reason to exist in this world outside of herself. The horrors of this world hardened people and Glenn knew better than anyone how close to that edge Maggie could get. But he’d hold her to his chest and give her the space to be fragile. To tell stories of the world and what it had been for her– what they could make it again. If zombies were the only things that had to worry about– they’d already learned how to fight those. They’d build higher fences, build a new farm, have a family– and the world may never be normal again, but it would be their’s and it would be new.
Maybe believing in that dream is half the reason Glenn hadn’t survived to see how improbable it was. There wasn’t a single resource in this world that someone alive wouldn’t kill for. Everyone had a justification somewhere and there was no real humanity left. It was the people you collected— the families you pieced together— the people you’d not only kill for— but you’d die for. Maggie had been guilty on both sides. Killing others to live, her people dying so someone else could survive. She didn’t say that out loud, but she knew her hands were far from clean. No one left alive could say that about themselves.
But Maggie had lost the last person who knew her that day and she was sure no one would ever know that girl again. She rarely felt like her— like she woke up every morning to a chunk of her missing. She didn’t smile as much, she rarely laughed. The stories of the world before fizzled out on her tongue and she only managed enough energy to press forwards.
Maggie had long convinced herself that she needed to stay alive for Hershel– otherwise she was sure that all the qualms she’d had about Beth trying to “take the easy way out” at the farm would’ve boiled down to a simple understanding. Her baby sister was always a lot wiser than she gave her credit for. But the idea of stealing the life of the one piece of Glenn she had left– well that just didn’t seem like a thing she could ever possibly do. It was wrong. To look at him like that– like an extension of man he had never met and had no frame of reference for. And maybe Hershel was right when he threw back into her face that she hadn’t seen him in years. Maggie was too busy fighting imaginary boogey men that when a real one showed up on her doorstep– all she could do was standby and scream.
The tears kept coming, the sobs too; hiccuping little sounds that leapt from her lips no matter how much she attempted to push them down. Holding her breath just amounted to breathing harder, fogging up the windows, the mirrors, and rubbing her eyes and mouth raw. Snot– saliva– and tears, it didn’t matter what, but the half-gloves she’d been wearing suddenly felt too attached to her skin and too damn soaking wet. She pulled at the fabric, pain shooting up her hand from where her knuckles split in conjunction with the radio but having the gloves on felt like ripping off her fingernails. She threw them on the floor, two small balls of leather, cut with sweat and blood as she barely focused on the way her hand bled, gashed right between her middle and ring fingers.
The pain should’ve made her feel better— it usually did but now she was crying to fill a bucket with a hole at the bottom.
She hadn’t had a breakdown like this in years. These feelings never, ever seemed to go away, but she’d learned to live with them. There once was a time when she couldn’t get through a day without crying or smashing something, but there was growth from there. Certainly not growth any mental health professional would approve of but at the end of the world, coping was simply not letting your grief and anger kill you and Maggie was still alive — even if on some days she wished she had the strength not to be. Her rage, her grief, it was finally compounding on her now. She couldn’t even remember the last time these emotions had taken hold within her so intensely. It felt like the band aid had been ripped off and the wound scrubbed with sandpaper; every movement only making it that much worse.
And the straw that broke the camel’s back?
Negan.
How pathetic was that?
How many years had she spent planning a death befitting the man? She’d wanted to do it with her own two hands for so long that being around him in New York had almost enacted a muscle memory. Knife to his throat— just barely over the scar Rick gave him— job too long unfinished. She’d pictured it in nightmares and dreams alike. Killing him would have to give her peace— wouldn’t it? The build up of years being afraid of his shadow— jumping whenever someone so much as fucking whistled. Negan had claimed he’d changed time and time again and no matter what proof she saw, there was always something in the back of her mind that made her refuse to believe it. Maybe he had changed— or maybe she had. Somewhere along the lines it had become less about Negan becoming a good person and more about hurting him for hurting her. For leaving her so fucking alone in this world.
It felt like Negan finally understood that in Manhattan.
No good act would absolve him of her judgment— because no matter what good he put into the world, it couldn’t touch Maggie where she was now. Too closed off, too broken— stuck at a grave with the name wiped away and not even she knew who she was mourning anymore. She had stopped living and all she knew how to do anymore was prepare for a funeral.
Negan was good at disarming people. Maybe it was a skill he had picked up after the world went to shit, or maybe he’d been capable of it all along; but for a man who had focused on terrifying people for their allegiances, he was damn good at calming them down. She saw the way he worked with Ginny; a steady figure, firm but caring— working around the girl like she was a wounded animal. The girl truly loved him. Negan offering her a space in this fucked up world that cared for no one— to be taken care of, to be protected. He comforted her; took on the burden of the horrors of this world and let her exist at his side, shrouded from them. After Ginny had left— Maggie saw glimpses of the Negan she knew; his mouth certainly getting far worse, but It took Maggie far too long to realize he was treating her the same.
It was infantilizing at first, sparking a deep rooted anger in Maggie when she noticed it. Like she needed to be protected and coddled in her grown age. Maggie had experienced so much in this world— wrath like a second nature— and yet still, it felt like Negan was handling her with kid gloves. Rage flared in her like a bad habit— refusing his help, biting out an insult whenever she could, but the man rarely returned the favor. Dark hazel eyes would fall on her, watching a second too long and Maggie broke away from their gaze like it scared her to think about just what Negan could see. He’d outstretched his hand to her about a hundred times, and she’d hit it away— but the one hundred and first; he still offered.
Maggie was sure at some point that it had to be Negan’s fucked up sense of repaying her. The fact that he owed her for one of the worst things he’d ever done, hanging over his head like a consistent noose and Maggie’s hand always on the rope. Maybe if he saved her, saved Hershel, then it would even out and she’d forget to pull the floor from under his feet.
When Hershel was taken, it ripped open that helplessness that she had spent so much time getting rid of. She didn’t have time to be sad— she barely had time to process what happened as she took off after the Burazi and chased them down to the Hudson. She hadn’t even processed the Croat’s demand until she lost sight of them and they passed into Manhattan.
Three days. She spent three days on that sandbar, outside of the city, barely a weapon on her as she was forced to plan. He had too many men for her to do this on her own. They’d taken her son so quickly, and he wasn’t needed alive. Hell, if they found Negan before she did, they’d probably kill Hershel for no good reason at all. So it became so much easier to blame him. She felt the rage, the hatred— forced herself to dig to that spot just below the surface—to that barely restrained wrath threatening to consume her. And she fed it. It wasn’t like she had ever stopped hating Negan— not in their time apart, but by the time she found him, that anger was red hot and if it hadn’t been for Ginny; Negan probably would’ve been dragged to Manhattan a little worse for wear. She’d preyed on his guilt then— knowing he’d follow if he felt responsible. And when it came to most things involving her— he always felt responsible.
Maggie had wanted to believe that was because he needed her forgiveness more than anything. But it never seemed like saving himself— as that would’ve made all of this so much easier. Negan held her back from danger time and time again, shed blood for her so she could have just a little less on her hands. He made space for her. Space to be sad even if she didn’t want to do it in front of him, a place to mourn— both all the people she’d lost— and the world around them. Maggie had often thought it was dumb to talk about the world before— it just made people too sad to talk about; their loss visible on their faces. But she still ached for it. There was a sensation like a photo album in the center of her chest. Like the memories would die with her one day and no one would know the things she did, because there was no one to hear them.
A version of herself from years ago, hell, maybe even a few months ago— would’ve hated the person she became. She hated herself for it— but talking to him about them made her feel a little less like that. Telling him about that time at the Hilltop when something had definitely snapped in her postpartum brain and she nearly killed a man simply trying to take joy in his harmonica. No one knew that. And she didn’t know why she told him, her brain quickly convincing herself that she was simply trying to drag his guard down. But the man’s guard was on the floor around her.
She didn’t dare even think about it– but somewhere deep inside herself she already knew the answer to why she couldn’t stop once she started.
When she told him a story about her mother, Maggie’s heart had been racing. Turning him in was always the plan— it didn’t make sense to come up with something different with her son’s life hanging in the balance. Ginny had tried to warn him, the girl so smart and caring so much. The look she gave Maggie before she left; Maggie knew the rage that flicked through her in that moment— and looking back at Negan, she saw a deep parental pain she knew all too well too. But she knew that had nothing to do with why she shared her story— a memory of curling up in her mother’s sickbed, talking about Santa Claus. It was a girlish memory, locked away from a time when childish things weren’t vulnerabilities. Maggie had rationalized that telling him this story would ease his guard, keep him by her side just long enough to hand him over. But somewhere between starting and ending her story, she looked back at him, her lips curled in a smile she didn’t force, waiting for him to laugh at her for holding onto such a memory. But the laugh never came, the lines on his face deepened as he smiled a smile so different from his usual cocky, lopsided grin. This smile was soft and a little sad, feeling for a little girl who had just wanted Santa to take all her pain away. Distantly, Maggie wondered if the same little boy who had stayed up all night to see the Statue of Liberty could understand.
His dark gaze settled on her, watching her talk, happy to listen. Happy to know. Maggie wondered if he knew he was the only person alive who knew that story either. The only person she’d talked to about her mother since her sister still lived. It was only for a few minutes, only moments of letting her guard down— but she felt like she could breathe again and when she noticed; it all came to a grinding halt.
Her heart always was a finicky thing– falling for the first boy that threw his heart to her at the end of the world– a boy she knew from the start wouldn’t survive it. But now– her heart had turned cruel and cold– so why the fuck did it break like this over a man she had no reason to care for? Maggie had convinced herself a hundred times that Negan would do the same in her position– if it was Annie– or his kid– or even Ginny; Negan would trade her without a second thought. But that wasn’t true and both of them knew it. There was a tether there. A string connecting them both that they could feel– a connection that didn’t break in the years they had spent apart and grew impossibly stronger in the short amount of time they’d been in Manhattan. Somewhere along the lines Maggie had stopped thinking about ways to turn Negan over and she watched him– carefully risking his life for her– for her son– and she knew that if she had just asked him to help her with this; if she had just told him the truth– then maybe they could both be spared. Maybe she could have Hershel and him.
Maybe she didn’t have to lose one of the only people left in this world who seemed to understand her.
But fear got in the way.
Negan knew her plan far before he said it outloud. Far before they were wrestling over knives. The man had tried to reason with her– pleaded with her– not to reconsider what she was doing– but to hear him and Maggie knew that if she opened her mouth– some terrible, broken thing would come out. If she spoke– it’d be the truth. The truth about how she didn’t want to do this. About how she had changed her mind. But what kind of mother would that make her? Even if it cost her some unfathomable cost– she’d pay it for her son.
All that building herself up– building Negan up in her head to be the unchanged man she needed him to be– and none of it was working now. Her feelings be damned– she needed her son no matter the cost and maybe this is exactly how she needed it to be. Negan had said it himself.
”Maybe some part of you always wanted it to end this way..”
Cut the cord– sever it all so she wouldn’t get hurt. So she wouldn’t mourn the loss of another person she’d let get too close before this world swallowed them up and spit them back out at her.
But what was she doing now?
Negan wasn’t dead– she knew that for sure. But he was gone. Maggie knew that handing him over meant feeding him into a life he had worked hard to pull himself from. Maybe he deserved it– but so did she after all she had done.
Maggie pushed her hair back from where it hung in her face– sticky with sweat and tears against the spanse of her forehead and if she had the mind to care– a hiss would pull from her lips as she dragged her broken hand back into her lap. But all the pain– it fizzled inside her– no more fire to stoke it. Her bleary eyes tugged across the dashboard– dented in her fit– but untouched by her breakdown laid the yankee’s hat, stuffed into a ball on the passenger side. She reached for it, using her good hand despite the way it made her stretch. Maggie pulled it to her, her pack still half-crushed in the bucket seat below and with more care than her body felt like it knew how to give right now, she unzipped it and put it delicately inside.
It was grief– she was sure of it– that feeling eating her up inside and she did not want to feel that anymore. So that just meant she couldn’t lose him. Maggie sucked in a wet breath, wiping her mouth as she caught sight of herself in the mirror– a mess in more ways than she had let herself be in a long time– but her eyes were resolute.
She had made a mistake.
She needed to save Negan– if for no other reason than selfishly needing him by her side.