Clarke sat counting the seconds pass by. Then the minutes. Then the hours. There was nothing to do really, and counting was the only way to drown her thoughts out. How ironic she thought that I would end up back in a cell after being released from one, albeit this was a more comfortable prison with a nice bed, a couch, and a shower among other pleasantries, but a prison all the same. Though the room was different than when she first woke up in it. After a week stuck in her prison Clarke began to panic. At first she thought that her and whoever else was captured would be quarantined would be informed of what was going on, but as luck would have it that didn't happen. This led to Clarke yelling and banging at her cell door until she no longer had her voice. When that didn't work she started throwing things around in a fit of anger and flipping things over. That hadn't worked either. All she had managed to do was give herself a large cut on the side of her arm. The guards had come then, they opened her door with the swipe of a card and tranquilized her. When she woke up the gash on her arm was healed; her room, however, was still a wreck. In the end she decided to do nothing but wait… and count. She stared at the painting on the wall, the only thing she couldn't bring herself to ruin. It was no secret that Clarke loved art, and the painting on the wall was nothing but art. The way the painter depicted the sky in swirls and the stillness of night calmed Clarke. It was actually one of the only things that calmed Clarke. Being able to see Monty calmed her mind as well. They communicated by fogging up the glass in the door of their cells and scribbling down small messages on them. They didn't have enough space to actually write out a whole escape plan, which frustrated them both, but at least they knew that the other was there.
One hour 30 minutes…
One hour 31 minutes…
One hour 32 minutes…
And so on went Clarke's day. If she allowed herself to stop she knew that her mind would over flow with thoughts of desperation and guilt and loss. It was enough to drive a person mad, if she wasn't mad already. Clarke would've rather slept but her nightmares didn't allow time for rest. Every time she closed her eyes all she saw was Bellamy fighting for his life, Finn running to help, the drop ship's door closing and then an explosion. She would always wake up with tears in her eyes and their names on her lips. She ached for both boys and wished for nothing more than for them to be alive, especially her co-leader. If he were alive, she thought Bellamy would've already found a way out of here, he would've been able to save all of us…and if Finn were alive… She couldn't bring herself to think about him. She started to cry, sobs echoing in her empty prison for the boy who broke her heart and the rebel that had found his way into it. It was easy to admit in her cell that she cared for Bellamy, although not like how she cared for Finn. When she saw him about to die defending the hundred she could feel a piece of her heart breaking, and then Finn ran out to help him and another part of her heart broke.
Snap out of it! Clarke wasn't surprised when it was Bellamy's voice she heard. Come on, princess! You aren't some damsel in distress, you can save your own damn self! This realization struck Clarke and she immediately stood up and started assessing the situation in front of her. She had escaped capture before, she could do it again. As she paced back and forth an idea struck her and she slapped her forehead, I should've thought of that before! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! It wasn't a guaranteed escape plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. During her first week of being imprisoned Clarke had taken note of the camera above her door and constantly felt like she was being watched. Well, she thought it'll be nice to finally get a bit of privacy. Clarke pushed the couch up against her door. Luckily, in her fit of desperate anger, Clarke had managed to break off a leg of the bed. She grabbed the leg and examined it. It was of medium length, metal, and shaped like a cylinder. Clarke climbed onto the couch, and looked directly at the camera. She smirked, and then jammed the metal into the camera, rendering it useless.