The Bargaining Chip
Tell Me
Graphic depictions of violence.
Blackness. That sensation-less void that brought release from the pain, a release that was almost pleasurable. She could stay there, at least she wanted to, but her interrogator, Negan had other plans. She'd been visited by the Governor, Joe, Negan and his assistants. She began to pray for death.
"There you are," Negan teased when she opened her eyes. His gloved hand gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the trails of her tears. "I really think you should tell me what I want to know. I don't know how much of this your body can take, it being so weak. I tell you what: why don't we start with something simple. Tell me where your group is, and we'll be done for today. Let's start with your name."
Her name. She wasn't so far gone that she had forgotten her name, but she'll be damned if she told him. He might end today's torture, but he wouldn't grant her freedom. And she'll never tell them where Rick is.
Her body jerked with every whip, a gasp escaping her clenched teeth, that sweet, senseless void slipping from her grasp. "We're not done yet. I want a name. Just tell me your name, and then you can rest.
She knew it was never going to end. How long would it be, she wondered, before she did break and tell him what he wanted to know? Tears welled up again, hot and bitter and full of torment, so far removed from the thoughtful, resourceful wife of the sheriff she had been. The Governor leaned in close, reading her expression, seeing her come close to that breaking point. "Where is it…" he teased.
All she had wanted to do was go home to the prison. She needs her husband, her children, and her friends.
They tied her wrists together, stretching her arms above her head to hang the rope from a hook in the ceiling. There wasn't much she could do, dangling with her feet off the ground, other than twist and kick. It didn't do any good and four of the men laughing at her unsuccessful struggles.
Oh, God it hurt… she moaned to herself. She had felt the small, sharp pain. She was dry, but they didn't care. Her body trembled with the pain.
Through unshed tears she watched Martinez's facial expression twist in pleasure as he pounded into her. His face, briefly, changed into that of her father's. He was dehumanizing her, erasing her existence. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth parted slightly, his breath in lock step with his motions. Up and down. In and out. He was sweating, little beads of moisture trickled from his temple and landed on her breast.
She felt the disgusting sensation when he climaxed inside of her. He punched her again, right in the mouth, keeping hold of her hair so her head couldn't fall back too far. Then he turned away and pulled up his pants. "Whip her." He said, coldly. "From her shoulders to her knees."
The assistant eagerly grabbed the lash from among the implements hanging on a rack. She lost sight of him as he went behind her, but the crack of the whip made her flinch.
She whimpered, and Martinez turned to look at her, obviously enjoying her suffering. He stuffed himself back inside his clothing as the whips continued. Her vision was darkening already, too weakened to endure very much more, but she thought she heard him mutter, "…don't stop, even when she passes out."
A final crack, her body jerking of its own will, and her mind slipped away back into the peaceful blackness.