The sound of metal and glass hitting the floor of the drop ship vibrated through the walls into the openness of the camp. A slim tray crashed to the ground, bouncing back up only to crash once more onto the ground near her ankle. Crimson fingerprints lined the tray and the miniscule medical tools fashioned from whatever they could get their hands on. The color continued in little droplets until met with a pool of blood. It started at the tear of her shirt, soaking the gray fabric of her shirt like black ink but as it flowed, meeting newer—less exuberant fabric the color of her life streaming out of her lightened.
Come on, Clarke…don't give up.
Her fingers moved up the hot, wet fabric until her fingers touched the gash. It was almost six inches long and way too deep to be brushed off. She wanted to call for help but her vocal cords no longer worked, just like her eyes were no longer allowing her to cry. She blamed herself although it was Finn's idea to follow the stream into uncharted territory. She told him not to, she followed him telling him that they needed to go back to camp before he led them both to their deaths. If she made it out alive, she would choose her words differently. Finn was laughing, telling her to let loose and she wanted to do just that except the memory of the last time haunted her…Raven, knowing that she waited for Finn to return, haunted her. Just as she was about to express her thoughts to Finn, he was knocked out by an angry grounder. And she found herself clinching her side at the way the dull cold metal broke through her ivory skin almost half a second later.
Naturally, her first concern wasn't her own health—or life. It was Finn and getting his stubborn ass over her shoulder and dragging him (seriously dragging at some points) back to camp where she could access his head wound. Luckily, when she dropped him at the gates he woke up and slightly embarrassed, disappeared. This led her to her privacy and her current situation.
Don't give up.
She'd attempted to clean the wound but the more she cleaned, the more blood got in the way. It was hard to apply pressure, sterilize and stitch up a wound by herself but she would be damned if she had someone else take time out of their busy wall-building, target-practicing, food-finding expeditions. The first priority was, and always will be, survival of the camp and if she wasn't doing that great of a job surviving by herself— well, that's her own business. Plus, medical treatment is her department.
She wanted to punch herself in the face. Her ego hadn't allowed her to process the fact that the camp needed her. She considered herself a chess piece and not one of importance, either. If they could survive a few more days…just a few, they would have a high-ranking doctor among them to take care of all their needs. Her life, her duty would be obsolete. That thought crossed her mind quite often—the point of where the camp realizes the "princess" is no longer needed.
Her skin was a porcelain color and if her hair were at all clean, she would look like a doll. Her dry lips and partially closed misty eyes were—
"Clarke?" Jasper's voice rang through her silent, spinning world like a whistle, "Clarke! Oh, damn, damn, damn…" He said, applying pressure to her wound with a hiss of disgust. She could hear the rustling of the spilled canisters and makeshift tools. He was fading fast—or was it her fading fast? The ceiling's welding marks were blending together with the color of the ship. Her breathing was slowing and she felt like she was going to take a much needed nap.
When was the last time she slept?
She closed her eyes, looking half-drunk as she did it. A hard slap to her face sent her reeling, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before she felt the urge to sleep again. She was hit once more and she heard Octavia curse under her breath.
It made her want to smile, thinking the last words she would ever hear were, "Son of a fucking bitch, goddammit Clarke wake up!" Was it morbid to smile at that? To know that the brunette cared so much that she was spitting fire and slapping the shit out of her?
But if she were to die—if she were to die right then, those wouldn't be the last words she ever heard. The last words she would hear would be, "Stay with me princess…"
And she felt inclined to do that.
