Her steps were forced and deliberate as she entered the camp; head down, eyes staring blankly at her bloodied shoes, hand clutching tightly to the knife, unable to move her fingers from their death-grip.

Clarke was frozen inside. Her mind had muted the world and all she could hear was Finn's dying breath repeating itself over and over in her head. That look—oh that look he gave her— pleading and guilty and knowing. He had asked too much of her. Far, far too much.

But who was she to deny him what he wanted? He'd begged her, knew what was going to happen. And all Clarke could think about was how his selfishness had never ceased, even in his last moments. Did he know how she would feel; what she would do? Even now, as she walked closer to the silent group of friends and Ark members, it was difficult to resist the urge to plunge the knife into her own heart and just let everything go.

But she couldn't.

Stepping closer to the group, Clarke noticed that they were all staring at her, as if waiting for something to happen, for her to break, for her to give up. And under all of the scrutiny and expectations, the knife felt hot and sharp in her hand and she dropped it, fingers flinging open. Her eyebrows scrunched together and she took a step back. She could hardly deal with herself. How was she supposed to face everybody else?

"Clarke," a soft voice said, and she looked over to see her mom, hand outstretched. Abigail took a step forward.

"I understand Clarke, you don't need to shut yourself out."

Clarke stared into her warm eyes for a minute before realizing what she had said.

"Of course you do," she responded hollowly. "Dad would too."

Clarke paused only a minute to admire the irony before moving her gaze a few inches past her mother and over to another tear-stained face.

Raven.

She had never seen the girl look so broken—so sad— and she knew that whatever friendship they had right now would have to be restarted from scratch.

"Raven," Clarke murmured, before making her way towards her.

The closer she got, the more the girl's eyes darkened and the more her expression became determined and hostile. But Clarke knew what was coming. Clarke knew what was going to happen once she entered her personal space; once she got close enough to remind Raven of what had happened.

BAM! The slap sent Clarke to the ground and her eyes welled up in pain. I deserve it, she thought. I deserve it.

Another forceful thrust was delivered to Clarke's ribs and she managed to look up just in time to see somebody pulling the screaming girl off of her, arms waving and legs flailing like a child throwing a tantrum. Strong arms wrapped around Clarke's waist and she felt herself being lifted back into a standing position, her knees and feet wobbling as she tried to regain her balance. Her eyes were still locked on Raven, who was staring at her ferociously, as if wanting to deliver the same death that Clarke had delivered to the boy she loved.

"I'm sorry," she managed to choke out. "Raven, I didn't have a choice. I loved him too."

Raven made to lunge at her, but Jasper managed to hold her back, directing her towards another part of camp.

Clarke watched her leave, noting the glare she sent over her shoulder as they led her away.

"Clarke," a deep voice murmured, and she came to realize that it was Bellamy who was holding her steady. Taking her hands, she gently pried his arms from around her waist, turning to face him.

The look in his eyes was enough to make her cry. Sympathy. God she didn't deserve that—didn't deserve anything anymore.

"Why aren't you"—her voice cracked—"why don't you hit me?" she asked, and her eyes closed painfully as if warding the tears off, and her head dropped slightly as if trying to offset the painful weight on her shoulders.

He didn't respond for a minute and when she looked up through watering eyes, she could see his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

"I'm a murderer. I killed my best friend," she tried to clarify over the muffled sadness in her voice. "I—I'm a bad person, Bellamy. So hit me, just like Raven."

He watched her break, not quite knowing what to say, not quite knowing how to put his thoughts into the right words—

"I deserve it!" She was becoming agitated now, angry. A fist landed squarely on his chest. "Go on!" She was yelling now, sobbing and yelling. "Hit me!"

And in that moment, all Bellamy could think to do was to wrap his arms around her and hold her as tight as possible. And so he did.

She continued to deliver blows to his stomach, but they were weak and he could feel her softening as he let his head come to rest in between the curve of her neck and the top of her shoulder. She just needed something to hold her together. She needed him.

And slowly, the fighting stopped and slowly she curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to feel her leaning into him and relaxing.

"I'm sorry," she was whispering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

There was nothing to be said; nothing he could say. Bellamy understood.

Bending down slightly, he wrapped his arm into the bend of her knee and used his other to support her back, lifting her from the ground and into the air.

She didn't even protest.

"It's not your responsibility," he said. "You didn't have a choice."

If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge it and Bellamy continued to make his way towards his tent.

"Clarke!" he heard a voice call behind him. Her mom. Abigail came to stand in front of him and Bellamy didn't miss the way Clarke's head turned further into his neck.

"Ms. Griffin, I think Clarke just needs some time alone," he said, trying to sound authoritative.

"Bellamy, I understand why you think so, but Clarke is my daughter and—

He felt something shift in his arms. "Mom. Please," it said and he'd never heard something sound so desperate before.

Abigail looked into her daughters eyes and Bellamy thought that maybe she did understand to some extent because the next moment, she had kissed Clarke on the forehead and walked away, giving Bellamy a very pointed look as she did so.

Readjusting his hold on Clarke, Bellamy continued through the camp, avoiding people's glances and whispers. One guy even cracked a smile and gave him a "thumbs up", to which Bellamy almost lost his cool and would have strangled if it weren't for the fact that he was carrying a person. Shaking off the anger, he finally reached his make-shift tent.

Clarke hadn't spoken at all and he didn't bother annoying her with questions or creating awkward tension, so he just set her down on the bed and sat next to it without a word.

Finally, five minutes later, a small voice whispered. "Thank you."

Bellamy looked over to see her staring at the ceiling of the tent. Her hands were intertwined tightly in her lap, although her eyes seemed to have dried.

"No problem," he said. There were a few more moments of silence before she spoke again.

"I think I'd like to be alone for a little while," she said, glancing over at him. He met her gaze and nodded, understanding.

"Okay, he responded, standing up. "I'll come back later, princess."

Just as he was about to open the flap, Clarke's voice called him back.

"Bellamy?"

He turned around to see her staring blankly at him, tears beginning to form again.

"Don't ever call me that again."

He nodded. "Bye, Clarke," and walked out.