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Chapter 1:

Her first instinct was to run—and Clarke knew better than anyone that first instincts were the difference between life and death. But, she hadn't. She couldn't. And somewhere in her head she chalked up her decision to a rare moment of weakness and scolded herself the entire walk back to Camp Jaha. Her busted lip, bleeding eyebrow and most-likely broken knuckles were proof of her momentarily lapse in rationality—well, those things and the fact that Harper was still alive and not Reaper meat.

She recalled the last time she'd walked through the electric gate surrounding Camp Jaha in similar condition. She was different person, then. She was happier, the days following up to her return to camp, than she'd ever been in her entire life. Yet, once the gate opened—the look, much like the look she wore on her face now, was there and everyone knew that Clarke Griffin wasn't the princess anymore. It was the day her heart froze over and refused to thaw no matter how many followers she gained—no matter how many "friends" she had.

"Thank you." Harper said to Clarke, side-glancing at the former medic. Harper looked worse than Clarke but Clarke looked like a soldier coming from battle. Harper looked like a scared girl—because truthfully, that's what she was. Her hair was matted with a mud and dirt mixture while her face was starting to bruise. Clarke met her eyes—and maybe Harper saw something small flicker in them—and opened her mouth.

"I made a judgment call and someone died." She said coldly, "Don't thank me."

When the gate opened, Clarke took the hand gun from her hip and handed it to the guard automatically. She was used to the policy by now. She was going to leave Harper but the sound of her mother's voice stopped her. "Where are going?" She asked Clarke, "You need stitches and you need to brief the council on what happened…Clarke, what happened? You're four hours late we were concerned."

"I can handle myself." Clarke brushed her off before specifying. "Physically and medically."

This was a typical conversation between Abby and Clarke. Clarke was emotionally distant, she never let herself feel and Abby was begging her to open up…she was trying to desperately bring out the parts of her innocent daughter who wanted nothing more than to breathe real air and feel water on her skin. Each time Abby tried, she found nothing but hallowed out spaces where her Clarke used to exist freely. As Clarke's mother, she had to keep trying but there was only so much she could take when it came to Clarke's demeanor and dialogue. "You think I don't know that?" Abby tried to run after her, "Clarke…you don't have to fight anymore. You were relieved of your duties months ago and constantly putting yourself in dangerous situations is going to end up getting you killed."

Abby had to prevent herself from sobbing when she looked at her daughter—really looked at her. Her battle wounds and her dirty features were sickening to any mother but it was the eyes. Her eyes were broken and not because she was sad—no because Clarke converted every emotion to anger and indifference for the feelings of others. Clarke didn't say anything before she turned back around and headed towards her room.

If there was a single person that Clarke didn't want to see it would be him; Bellamy Blake. She didn't want to see him smiling down at his "catch-of-the-day" and she didn't want to hear his laugh. She didn't want to meet his eyes and she didn't want to hear his voice. Still, in her own sick way she never wanted it to go away. He stepped away from his pretty little brunette and looked at Clarke—first as a friend, then as a leader. "What happened?"

"Conner's dead." Clarke's tone was often mistaken for nonchalant and emotionless when she spoke to anyone about something serious. It was her defense mechanism towards caring. She'd cared too much at one point of time and what had it gotten her? Here…here in this miserable life.

"How?" Bellamy said, clearly affected by the loss.

"Ask Harper." Clarke said before she reached her door. "Did you need something?"

"Clarke…" Bellamy extended a hand to touch her face.

She closed her eyes before exhaling loudly, "Don't touch me." His face fell, her rejection causing him to take a step back. Clarke was scary these days…

And it was all his fault.

He remembered the last time he saw her like this—saw her broken skin and bloody hands. He recognized the look in her eyes—that fucking look haunted him every day and it never left those cerulean eyes. Not since the day he broke her heart…no, he hadn't just broken her heart. He'd ripped it out and used it as target practice until she got the point. He put that look in her eyes and he regretted it more than he could regret anything else he'd done on earth.

"I'm sorry." It was probably the four hundredth time he'd said it since he realized his mistake. God, it was a mistake… he knew that now.

"Me too." Clarke wasn't apologizing to him—truthfully, she had nothing to apologize for. She was apologizing to the person locked behind the vault in her heart—the person that loved Bellamy Blake with everything she had until she didn't have it anymore. That Clarke was weak—that Clarke had resurfaced for an instant today and coaxed Conner into helping save Harper from the reapers and that Clarke was responsible for Conner's death. Even if the man could make his own choices. She slipped out of sight as she entered her room, locking the door with a heavy sound.

Bellamy stood there for a moment before collecting himself and returning to the brunette he'd been talking to before Clarke shook up his world.

Inside her room, Clarke was a different person. She wasn't affectionate—there was no time for affection and meaningless emotions such as love. Inside her room, Clarke was irrational and that was her outlet when it came to her impervious state.

She grabbed the glass figure she'd found outside of her door (probably from Finn) and threw it violently against the wall until it shattered into a million pieces. It was for losing Conner—a loyal follower. It was for losing Bellamy—the love of her life. It was for her mother, it was for her friends, it was for everything she'd lost…

She blinked after a moment of looking at the mess she'd made, stepping over the glass and reaching for a needle and the small mirror she kept by her bed. She steadily stitched her skin after rubbing a rag across her face to erase the dirt and blood. Her mind was drifting to the memory she replayed in her head every single night before she closed her eyes:

Her laugh was a strange sound—not then, but compared to the person she would become it was certainly rare. Bellamy was laughing, too and that was also rare. She was celebrating a WIN during a council meeting—he was celebrating with her. Her eyes darted around the field they were in, supposedly "hunting" but more-so making fun of the imbeciles on the council in general. He leaned down, his hand brushing her cheek. "Can I kiss you, Clarke?" He'd asked, meeting her light-hearted eyes. She nodded, closing her eyes before his lips clashed with her own—

"Clarke…" a muffled voice called to her from behind the door followed by a soft knock. Clarke put the mirror down, pushing herself off of her bed before going to the door. "It's Octavia…"

Clarke sighed, "Do you need something?" She gritted her teeth while she thought of Octavia's persistence. She would attempt to "talk" at least four days a week (and that was rounding down)—each time getting rejected. She was relentless.

"We miss you." Octavia said. If Clarke could see the girl, she would understand the emotion pulsing through the Blake girl's head—it was evident in the way Octavia rested her head against the door, a hand hovering in a half-knock stance. "The real you…"

I miss her too.