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.”
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