Monroe’s teeth were beginning to ache from how tightly they were pressed together. Uncontrollable anger was beginning to seethe inside her, threatening to bubble up and make her snap. Her eyes narrowed at Murphy and she shook her head, refusing to let him go just yet. “Maybe it should be justified if you explode by me asking a simple question. I just wanted to know why.” She swallowed, not caring about the poison in her voice “It’s cowardly. And stupid.”
Maybe could have kept it together if he hadn’t spoken the last part. But the more Murphy went on the more angry and hurt she got until the top of that bottle she pushed her emotions into popped off. How could he go there? How could he say that? The was another pause as the anger visibly rose, showing on her expression and countenance as the girl stiffened. “You-”
Monroe’s voice caught, she was too livid and shocked to form a complete sentence. Her hand balled into a fist and she found herself responding the only way she knew how. The fist was brought up to Murphy’s nose in a quick and flicking motion, making contact with a sickening thud.
Murphy wasn’t new to violence. In fact, he was intimately
acquainted with being attacked. He was, however, new to the full brunt of
Monroe’s fist. Her knuckles bore into his cartilage, flint on flint, and pain
rippled through his face upon impact. Blood dripped from nose and spattered his
shirt as he stared at her, wide-eyed and wounded.
This was inevitable. Monroe’s betrayed expression got into
his bloodstream; the edges of his vision blurred and blackened slightly, and
his nose was crooked and streaming. He tried to muster the conviction he’d felt
when he’d decided to stay. He tried to remember his pride and justifications.
However, the only thing he remembered was that he was a coward and Monroe was the only thing that made the idea of dying
more devastating. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to hit her and make her pay, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t. His
emotions were everywhere, everywhere, like a serpent trying to escape him, like
he was being consumed. She was right, she
was right, he was a coward. Months and months worth of pent of misery poured out of his eyes and skin and mouth.
“What, that’s all you got?” he croaked, and then his voice
rose. “You want me to stay,
huh? Well what if I can’t? ‘Cause there—there’s so much death,
all around me, and I just—I just can’t…I just-” with a hysterical laugh, he instinctively
wiped his hand under his nose, and tears gushed over his eyelids and slid down
his now blood-smeared cheeks. “I feel it in my Goddamn head
and it’s killing me! It’s killing me. That should’ve been
my execution.”
Finn’s execution was
still a fresh wound, and tied into his low blow regarding Sterling. Despite
everything, Raven had been right to offer him up. He may not have pulled the
trigger, but he killed Connor and Myles, and tried to hang Bellamy. Murphy wrapped his arms around his stomach until
his lungs felt as if they were being wrung out.
“I’ve kept all this inside me for so long, and
everything is fucked up and there’s nothing I can do about it,” he shouted.
“I’m not allowed to anything, I can’t act out: I’m just supposed
to crawl into a hole like the obedient
dirt I am and take it. But I can’t do this forever! My father,
he—he died for me. And I—I can’t do this forever. I can’t do this forever, I
can’t-”
Bellamy huffed at Murphy’s words, he was too tired for this. He was tired of this all, he was tired of being scared, thinking what would happen if he just fucking ran away. But he knew what happened, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want that mess when the Grounders would come after him and most likely make his people pay too. He didn’t want them to hurt his people, not anymore. They had killed enough people, both the Grounders and Sky People had. It was time to stop it all.
More importantly, he was already tired of this conversation, glaring… whatever this even was. He couldn’t take these kind of situations anymore, he couldn’t keep telling them that they needed to save themselves, that he was giving them an opportunity and don’t you fucking dare to throw it away. Even Murhpy was going to stay. Bellamy stiffened at that idea, the boy in front of him would be dead as soon as he was gone. Was he really that stupid? Bellamy sighed, he wanted to shake him, tell him he had to at least try, but it wasn’t his choice, it was Murphy’s. He couldn’t tell him what to do and he was tired of trying.
He couldn’t help a small, dry chuckle at Murphy’s question. He hadn’t even touched that, left it underneath all his other things, forgotten it after that. Bellamy sighed and dropped onto the mattress again. “I think I’ve needed it for a long while,” he admitted but didn’t even reach for the pile where his things were, only glared at it with dark eyes. “But it changes nothing anyway so why to bother? Just take it back if you want.”
Despite a dozen death scares, there had always been a sense
of intransience to the King, and now
the Grounders were going to take that away. Typical. Murphy felt sick to the core. “You’re really shit at this whole enjoying your last days thing, you
know?”
Much to Murphy’s surprise, Bellamy didn’t rise for the bait.
In fact, there was something unsettling and melancholy about his face;
exhaustion bled from his skin, and Murphy could see an ounce of fear within his
eyes. The soldier was tired of fighting.
Part of Murphy wanted to take advantage of this; longed to hit that vulnerable
place inside Bellamy’s head, the place Murphy had been clawing at since he was
strung up for nothing. But now, everything was fucked up, and guilt weighed him
down: must he insist on making the poor bastard’s short life even more
miserable?
In lieu of further bickering, Murphy’s sharp features
softened, and he sighed, unmoved by Bellamy’s manifold glare. “I don’t want to
take it back.” There was something soft and teasing just
below the surface of his words. “Your decision’s ridiculous, but it’s your decision. Let’s drink to it.” He paused
and offered a half-hopeful grin, because yeah, maybe he genuinely wanted Bellamy to
say yes. “I’ll even tell you all about the time I pissed on Connor.”
Monroe’s teeth pressed together tighter at Murphy’s words as comprehension entered her eyes. There was a silent pause, filled with the sound of her quickening breath. She shook her head at him and didn’t even try to mask the betrayed expression on her face. How could he? Murphy was one of the only friends she had left. The only one that understood.
“You two…” she muttered, failing to keep the pain out of her voice. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t sure she wanted to understand how he could stay and align himself with people like Kane, with people who were willing to look the other way at mass murder. Monroe still gripped Murphy’s sleeve, trying to even out her voice. “Why?”
“Oh come on, I don’t
have to justify anything to you!” snapped Murphy, trying not to under Monroe’s
harrowing stare; those eyes, struck with betrayal, were on the verge of a catastrophe.
She gripped his sleeve – a familiar gesture that soured into something painful.
Murphy’s thoughts were mangled stands, torn to shred and
spilling around him - like blood. He had always resented the Hundred for the
way they excluded him. But not Monroe. No, Murphy enjoyed her company, enjoyed
her subtle humour which was almost on par with his own, her empathy which made
him think of better times, and even her anger, for it was something familiar to
him. But regardless of their comradery, Murphy was full of sharp edges. Monroe
had finally been cut.
Murphy was sick of
living his life like an apology. And this was his last shot at redemption. If
he remained, if he fought, then his
sacrifice would wash away all the wrongs that he’d done; if his father and
Bellamy had done it, then why couldn’t he? He
wasn’t a coward.
“What do you care? Look, If I stay, you’ll get over it,” He wasn’t
a coward. He kept telling himself this. He cared about her. And maybe that’s
why he was so fucking driven to drive her away. He could lose himself, but he
couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t—he couldn’t lose her too. “I’m not Sterling. You’ll
forget I was even here.”
Pietra resisted a sigh and looked up when the person spoke again, recognizing the voice of one of the delinquents. She eyed the young man a moment, taking a few seconds to remember his name. Murphy. Or at least that’s what she thought it was, keeping up with everyone was hard, especially when she really interacted with any of them.
“I’m sorry?” she said after a moment and placed her pen down. She was bewildered as to what he could want from her, generally everyone was going to the weapons room for anything pertaining to Grounders. “Can I…help you?”
Murphy stepped away from the door while Pietra frowned at
him. Her confusion was to be expected; most of the remaining sky people wanted nothing to do with the
science division. They were too busy defending Kane or preparing for the inevitable.
Murphy, however, intended to outlive most of the skaikru – and that is why he needed poison. Sure, he loved guns,
loved how powerful they made him feel,
but he did not trust them. If either of his firearms ran out of bullets, the Grounders would eat him alive. Poison,
however, would make his dull knife much deadlier. He’d be able to defend
himself without guns.
“Yeah, you can,” said Murphy. Without asking, he leaned
against Pietra’s bench and surveyed her work. There were numerous illustrations.
They were pretty, kind of. However, Pietra’s handwriting was an
incomprehensible smear. Sure, Murphy
could decipher it if he truly focused, but the larger part of his attention was
devoted to the task at hand. “Do you know what Grounders use on their
knives?”
“Do you think I want this?” Bellamy growled. He couldn’t believe Murphy had bothered to come just to damn whine about this, about how he was going to leave them when all he was trying to do was to save these innocent ones Kane couldn’t care any less! He owed them all this, he had got them this far, this damn far, and he wasn’t going to back down just because… just because this would be his end. These people would get another chance as the Stageda, they would be accepted by other clans and that was all he could offer to them.
He frowned at Murphy’s mention that the boy might stay at the camp. He needed to admit he wasn’t exactly surprised but he had still hoped for something more. Murphy had gone through so many things, so many bad things he could hardly even imagine, and now he was going to stay and get killed? Why? Because he was damn stubborn.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? Should I be touched?” Bellamy huffed and turned away. He didn’t like this, this all “please Bell I can’t lose you” crap. That was bullshit. They would get over it, every each one of them would get over it and survive if they just fucking wanted to do that. “You of all people should already know this world doesn’t care about what you want. And it’s not like I’m fucking irreplaceable! I’ve got us all this far but it’s my time to finally do something to stop Kane fucking everything up. If they want my head, they’re going to get it without having to cut others’ first.”
“Yeah, you should be touched. That means no mercy kill,” Murphy smirked, gaze
hopeless as he looked toward the ground. He couldn’t remember what he’d wanted
out of this talk, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. He cut his eyes back up, and stared into Bellamy’s for a
second. Eye contact, a dangerous thing.
His eyes were dark and heavy-rimmed, and there was a dazed quality beneath his
immediate agitation; he probably hadn’t slept for days. “Me of all people…” he echoed, acidly, actively trying to distract
himself from his budding concern. But Bellamy had a point – as per fucking always. He was doomed either way. There was no point.
“That’s your ego talking, Blake—I never said you were irreplaceable,” Murphy deflected, a
little too quickly; it was a blatant lie. Bellamy was a total dick, and a slave
to mob mentality, but he was also a martyr with constellations for freckles and
a voice like dark matter. Even Murphy could see how irreplaceable, how rare and
matchless Bellamy was, and it filled him with inexplicable dread.
Murphy didn’t know what
he felt for Bellamy. He had no point of reference. It was solid and dull and constant, like a fungus, festering and
refusing to leave. It throbbed in his chest like a living thing, and it usually
hurt but sometimes it didn’t. He thought it had receded, had faded since he’d
busied himself with medial chores. But it was always fucking there, perpetual
and hot and plastered to his body like a second skin.
Murphy calmed down a bit. His concern returned, and he
softened his scowl into a well-meaning sigh. “It doesn’t matter. You still have that
whiskey I gave you?” he asked, unabashed about changing the topic. He took a
step back from Bellamy and sat on his mattress; he’d been on shift all day, “You
look like you need it.”
Bellamy let out a tired huff at Murphy’s words. He wished he would have a good answer to that, he wanted to somehow justify this situation but it was impossible. This was unfair but this was all he could do after everything that had happened. The Grounders wouldn’t let him go, not anymore, and he wasn’t going to run like a scared rabbit. “That Grounder bitch is their queen, they want justice to her. It’s just matter of time if they get me now or later. The little queen wants my blood, she shall get it.”
He tried to keep his voice still, heartless. He wanted to talk about his future like it wouldn’t matter to him, like none of this would matter. Because if he… if he admitted how fucking scared he was, how the nightmares were always reaching for him, he wouldn’t handle it. And Murphy wasn’t doing anything to help him. Bellamy knew damn well what they had done to Murphy, what they were going to do for him. That would be just much, much worse. Murphy had got out of there alive… he wouldn’t.
“It doesn’t matter!” Bellamy exclaimed, stepped closer to the younger boy. “None of that matters anymore. I’ve sealed my deal, it’s the only way to save even some of us. If I didn’t agree to this, they would’ve killed everyone. Do you want that?” He glared down to him, he didn’t need this. God, he seriously didn’t need this now, not from Murphy. “I do what I have to do. A leader protects his people. I don’t have any other choice.”
Bellamy encroached on Murphy’s space, glaring down with
tired eyes, and it felt natural and easy. The animosity was familiar; soon Bellamy would be gone, and
there would be no one left to make Murphy feel this alive. He tried to picture
Bellamy going off to be tortured by the Grounders. Every time he tried, though,
he could only see the man who’d led them through hell; everything he was and
everything he could be; every reckless choice and broken promise; every
hard-won survival.
“So that it, huh? You
go off, and what, we get rounded up? Hope for the best?” asked Murphy, voice breaking patchily. No, there was nothing
left for him with the Stageda. He’d stay
at Camp Jaha—not despite everything, but because of it. “Fine. Fine. Some of them are going to stay, you know. And I guess I will too. I
have nothing better to do.”
Murphy smirked at that, but none of the mirth touched his
eyes. He thought back to Bellamy, strung up and hanging from a noose of red
seat-belts – and how Murphy had later hauled Bellamy’s useless ass up the side of a cliff with
those same belts. Most things happened so damn fast, and yet there was
never enough time left. Time destroyed everything its path, and soon it would
erase any remnants of Bellamy’s existence.
“This is fucking ridiculous.” Murphy blurted out without any warning or
comprehension at all. “This would be so much easier if I actually wanted you to die. I used to, you know? And now I — I don’t, and — shit, you’re an asshole, Blake, but I can’t lose you too. ”
