Author's note: I did this piece of writing a few years ago and tweeked it a little to fit into the character of a darker Murphy from 'The 100'. Also, don't get me wrong, I love Murphy's new character arc on the show - he's actually pretty cool now. I just thought he fitted most into this short one-shot. Warning: this is not for the faint hearted as it is quite dark and there is violence. I hope you guys find the story compelling (if you choose to read it) and any constructive criticism is welcome!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and descriptions :)
The Contingency
John Murphy stood there watching the illuminated shadows as they shot up like sparks from a fireworks display. They jumped into the night, lighting up the sky for that brief moment or so before fizzling out into nothing. Heat emanated from the scene in front of him. Flames consumed the house with the hunger of a starved animal: frenzied and desperate.
The weatherboard house had been withering away long before the fire. In his mind's eye, he still saw the off-white paint peeling from the edges of the timber after years of untamed weather; the loose nails barely holding the horizontal panels in place, rusting that typical reddish-brown colour. He saw his own dim-lit room, secluded in the far end of the house and the tall cracked mirror that rested against the dusty cabinet by his bed. He saw the bird's nest that had dwelt in his secret part of the attic –the only place he had been able to find comfort.
And, now it was disintegrating right before his eyes.
There was screams from inside the house along with the smell of burning flesh. Agony scented the air and the hoarse cries of his father trapped inside pierced the night like the sound of a bow striking down on the bridge of a violin –a harsh ululation.
But fix your gaze upon the valley for we near the river of blood, in which those who injure others by violence, are boiled. These were the words of Dante's Inferno. Murphy recalled them as if his own battered copy was still resting in his lap, him preaching to the eggs of the bird's nest sitting by the window of the attic. Regrettably, he hadn't been able to save either from the fire.
People began to crowd around him, questioning each other about the contingency of the situation. Some gave him looks of sympathy, others of puzzlement and suspicion. Deep in thought he remained indifferent to their judging eyes.
…I endeavoured not to wince as the next blow came. But there were many more to come –I knew that. I could almost see myself eyeing the bruises in the broken mirror of my bedroom afterwards as I tried to heal myself the best way I could. Crack. I gasped, nearly whimpering from the new source of pain. My toe was either broken or fractured. I couldn't tell. Resigning myself to the present yet again, I wondered for the millionth time how long this could last. Blood seemed to be everywhere. My vision blurred. Would it ever stop? I barely registered the sound of my own pained cry when the baseball bat connected with my ribs. There was another sickening crunch…
The seventh circle of the Inferno housed those who were violent to others. They were immersed in Phlegethon, a river of boiling blood and fire. Murphy supposed it was fitting then, that his father was trapped in the house as it went up in flames. Especially given the many burn scars he has so eagerly bestowed upon his son. His jaw clenched at that thought.
On a sudden whim, he lifted the hem of his oversized t-shirt, peering down at the pale skin of his torso which was marred by numerous disfigurements. Some of the scars were only a few days old and were darker and more prominent. Others had faded and felt like nothing more than a slight indentation of the skin. Cool to the touch, his fingers skimmed the scars lightly and he tensed, remembering every encounter in which he had received one.
The fire-fighters had arrived and were now inquiring about any survivors. Murphy now stood behind the action, idly wondering if anyone recognised him as one of the residents of the neighbourhood; not just as the boy who stumbled upon the horrific fire. It wouldn't have been surprising though. He had rarely been let out of the house in the nineteen years or so of his life.
As people speculated, he merely observed. They came up with theories for what had happened but he knew their questions would never be answered. It would remain an unsolved matter –a tragedy the world would never understand.
Even after most of the crowd had dispersed, Murphy remained hidden in the shadows of the two houses from across the road, contemplating the events leading up to this day. When he felt secure that no one was watching, his hand crept to the back pocket of his worn-out jeans and pulled out the object which had created most of his scars –his father's lighter.
He clicked it open and shut rhythmically, thinking how ironic it was that this very object had given him the one thing he wanted most.
His freedom.