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-”
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.”
Monroe sat up on her elbows when she heard the laugh, raising a brow at Murphy. Her brows furrowed slightly at his aggression and she clenched her jaw tight. She sat up all the way and eyed the young man coldly as he finished speaking, her gaze following him a moment after he hopped down. She swallowed, how could he just walk away? Everyone was walking away from her her and she couldn’t just let Murphy do it too.
Monroe slid down from the bunk and hurried forward, grasping at her friend’s sleeve. “Hey!” she tugged on his arm to make him look at her. She felt her chest tighten as anger and betrayal began to build inside her. No, she wasn’t going to cry about, instead she wanted to scream at someone, something. “Where are you going?!” she asked in an edged tone, trying to swallow down in the lump in her throat.
Monroe chased after Murphy and grabbed his sleeve, demanding
his attention; he couldn’t escape this confrontation. Finally, he stopped, and reeled about to face her—a jerky,
abrupt movement that set his waspish eyes ablaze. The sound of her voice
tightened around his throat – and hell,
did it hurt. The only way he knew how to deal with sadness was to do something
bad for attention, and maybe this was it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Murphy croaked, and then his voice
rose. “I’m staying here.”
There. It was out in the open. He couldn’t do this forever;
this had always been inevitable, no matter how hard he tried to be good. It was
right for him to die by the hands of Grounders.
As Jaha would say, it was his destiny.
He had imagined it vividly when they’d tortured him. Every step of his journey
had led him to this exact moment. His father had been brave enough to die for
him, and now he was going to return the favour. He’d die for them, for these useless cowards. For Clarke. For Bellamy. For Monroe.
Camp Jaha had begun to fall into a busier bustle than usual between those packing to leave and those readying themselves for war. All Monroe had left to do was wait. Wait for Bellamy to die. Wait to have to leave Tegan. Wait to be forced into an unfriendly environment and watch her people be killed. She felt like she was losing her mind, but she’d already tried drinking it down. She just had to wait.
The girl wandered into the dormitory, not sure what she was looking for until she spotted Murphy on the bunk above her own. She approached the bed and nimbly climbed up next to him, dangling her legs off the side. Monroe laid back and turned her head to look at him, eyeing the belongings littered around bedding. She furrowed her brows slightly before asking “Why aren’t you packed?”
The bustle was annoying as hell. Murphy closed his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the commotion that surrounded
him. These skaikru were sniveling cowards. Most of the fleeing delinquents were the same ones who orchestrated his execution and supported his exile, and yet they couldn’t even stay loyal to their cause. To their leader. Pathetic.
Eventually, someone new encroached on Murphy’s bunk. The footfall was familiar, and Murphy slitted one eye open and considered
hiding beneath the covers until Monroe left. Unfortunately, she was persistent,
and she soon climbed up and settled next to him. She asked why Murphy had not
packed, and he laughed like she’d told a joke instead. Oh great, here it comes. He was not in the
mood for this conversation.
Murphy leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and he refused to make eye contact. “The hell would I pack?” he deadpanned, finally turning to face her, and – nope, he wasn’t having this
conversation; Monroe’s half-hopeful eyes inspired something guilty and painful within Murphy’s chest. He’d already made up his mind, and she wouldn’t like it, and that hurt. “Go annoy someone else, Roe.”
Murphy promptly jumped off the bunk with all the grace of a
flea-ridden alley cat, and slowly sauntered towards the mouth of the dormitory.
Monroe narrowed her eyes at Murphy, ready to accept the challenge. “You wanna bet?” she shot back, sitting forward. It had been too long since she’d sparred, she was practically itching to have a go. The girl was distracted by Murphy’s flicking a bug in her direction. She looked down and picked up that insect, holding it on a finger as she inspected it.
She looked back at Murphy when he spoke, raising her brows slightly. She fought back an amused smile at his enthusiasm and flicked the ladybug back at him. She smirked at his last words, giving him a teasing look. “Maybe it’s not the Grounders you should be worried about, eagle face.” She leaned back on her hands and yawned before adding “A dip in a river sounds nice.”
“Eagle face?” Murphy all but elbowed her, distaste writ plain on
his face. “Fine. I’ll peck your eyes ou– ”
Before he’d even finished talking, the flicked ladybug scuttled
across his throat, earning an alarmed hiss. The hell? Murphy writhed and slapped his neck, and still the pesky
insect managed to escape back into the grass. Murphy huffed and threw both arms up over his eyes; he was much too sober to have his pride damaged
by a stupid insect. “I hate the Ground.”
He reached out to snatch the flask back from Monroe.
However, he stopped dead in his tracks as a sinister thought slithered into his head,
loud and true: look at you, you’re just like
your mother. Just like that, his stomach heaved. No, not now. He rolled over and got to
his knees, and made it ten or so steps before dropping to his knees. He heaved into the dirt until his stomach was clear, but gagged emptily for a minute longer
as his body tried in vain to purge itself of the thought.
Monroe gave a dry smirk, muttering back “Whatever the hell we want” then took another swig. She stared out blankly across the camp grounds, letting the drink add to the warmth the weather and her post-work out temperature. She glanced down at Murphy only to see him inspecting her arm, making her suddenly conscious of the single scarring on her wrist. She looked away before he noticed that she’d seen him, hoping he wouldn’t be able to differentiate between it and her normal battle scars. Monroe’s eyes flicked to Murphy’s own exposed arms a moment, catching the pink criss crossed lines. Then she realized he understood and she turned back to her drink, trying to wash down the remembered pain.
Monroe’s head whipped back in Murphy’s direction when he popped up, raising her brows. She normally would have hit him for the nickname, but she was feeling grateful that he didn’t point out her scar and she new it wasn’t meant maliciously. The girl have a small snorting laugh at his comment and closed the near empty bottle, tossing it back at Murphy. “More muscle than you, beanpole,” she shot back “I have plenty to go around.”
Monroe didn’t have to say a damn thing; Murphy wouldn’t
point out the scars unless prompted to. He
understood. The inquisitive glance followed by a flash of appreciation showed
that she did too.
“Just fucking try me,” dared Murphy, lips curled into a competitive
grin reserved for the drunk. His words were in jest; although, he would admit
that he’d enjoy sparring with Monroe. “I could take you down a notch.” His
train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt when a radioactive ladybug crawled
up his bare foot. He flicked it in Monroe’s general direction before flopping
back against the grass and his hoodie.
“You know, Bellamy’s rule about leaving camp is bullshit. I found this river when I was out. The frogs there glowed and the water clear.” It was true, although
the body of water wasn’t quite a river. It was too small. Mbege had
shown it to him shortly after landing on the Ground, although he’d scarcely been
there since; the shallow water stretched down to a river, and flowers grew
like algae between the damp cobbles. “No chance of being attacked – well. By the
wildlife. Grounders are fair game. I’ll take you there once this shit is over. You know, if we don’t die.”
Monroe caught the flask and unscrewed the lid, taking a long draught. She made a small wince at the taste, just as strong as ever but it was worth the warm buzz it sent through her. “She can get over it,” Monroe muttered before taking another swig. She wasn’t actually angry at the doctor, she was just frustrated at everything right now.
Monroe eyed Murphy as he lowered down, looking away and shrugging at his question even though he couldn’t see it. She took a small sip of the liquid before giving a response “I don’t need to stay in bed anymore.” She absently swirled the bottle around, glancing at the young man next to her before being more honest “I can’t stay in there any longer.” She took another drink and felt lighter, she knew working out and drinking was a bad combination but she just didn’t care.
“Yeah, fair enough.” Murphy chuckled as Monroe winced; the
moonshine tasted like paint-thinner and smelled just as bad. Thankfully, Murphy
was certain that he’d burned off half his taste buds just from drinking the
swill. Abby would be furious. “Whatever
the hell we want, right?”
Sunlight fell like honey through the clouds and landed upon
them in splashes, softening the lines of their faces and the angry bags beneath
their eyes. Murphy kicked his off his boots and curled his toes into the wet
grass, digging little moats with his heels. He was still on the wrong side of
tipsy; the world went along around him at a slower pace, as though he was
underwater. He blinked up at Monroe, at the flaming halo of her hair and the
exposed scars on her arm. They shone fish-belly white, and his stomach dropped
at the mere sight of them. He understood; his own scars were illuminated, all varying
pink and white white lines that trailed up his inner wrists like railroad
tracks or chicken scratches.
Still, Murphy said nothing. Instead, he frowned and snapped back up
to a sitting position. “But whatever, we all know why you’re really out here, short stack,” he said, feigning a serious tone. His voice was considerably slurred. “You want to bench press Blake. You should save that muscle for the Grounders.”
Monroe relaxed slightly when she saw it was just Murphy and rested her elbows on her knees as she caught her breath. She eyed him a moment, catching his off-smile. Concern wasn’t something she wanted right now, everyone was fussing over her and she was sick of it. She was sick of these walls and of this war.
“Not enough to keep me in here,” Monroe huffed with a humorless smirk. She paused, catching a familiar whiff of Monty’s brew. She raised her brow and looked back up at Murphy. “Are you hungover?” her eyes dropped to the bottle in his hand which she hadn’t noticed before. She extended a hand “Fork it over.”
It was an easy question. Murphy shrugged – a confirmation. He took one more sip from the flask and then laughed, bitter and soundless, and threw it at her; it was yet another souvenir from the Lighthouse, all shiny and brass. He’d also taken whiskey and bourbon from the bunker, but those spirits were reserved for special occasions; drunken brooding didn’t count as a celebration. For now, Monty’s moonshine would do the trick, even if it tasted like kerosene and piss; he had a family tradition to uphold.
“Drink up. Griffin will have my head.”
Before Murphy could change his mind, he stepped forward and flopped down on the grass next to Monroe. He shrugged off his hoodie and used it to pillow his head. The sun shone directly in his puffy eyes, so he slung a lazy arm over them, huffing. “Why are you even up?”
