A/N: The aftermath of the last episode, and my need for something different then Clarke being confronted about her behavior.
Warning, hinting at suicidal thoughts and bits of depressed symptoms. If this triggers you, proceed with caution or don't read.
She's adrift, and she doesn't know how far out she is.
All she does know, is that the waves are currently yanking at her ankles and gently tugging at the strands of her hair, the only noise being the pounding of her heart and the hum of waves crashing about her, the only taste being the salty flavor of deep blue, the only souvenir of life is the whistle of air brought into her lungs and out past her parted lips, the sun light streaming and intermingling with the depths of sea.
Every evening, just before the sun kisses the earth goodnight, she swims out past the shore and submerges in the comforting chaos of rampaging waves and reckless motion.
She stays out and floats on her back until the moon dances with the stars, the glittering orbs of light reminding her of the sand reflecting the sunshine.
She then swims back to shore leisurely, her skin still warm from the pink hue adorning her cheeks, left by the licking flames of the sun, her fingers and palms wrinkly and numb, the water cascading down her neck and her ears as they drain the liquid, the sound coming back to her in whispering crickets and a rough breeze coursing through the air, the noises bringing her somewhat back to life.
It's been only three months since she'd managed to save her people, three months since she had returned home and watched indifferently at the display of reuniting families and rejoicing voices, three months since the pestering concern, responsibilities, and further disappointment.
Three months since abandoning her role as leader.
Three months since she'd left it all behind in the middle of the night, with deep gashes torn into her wrists and along her arms, her mind screaming and her face blank.
Three months since trembling finger tips and a constant reminder of how incredibly weak she is, the bravado of strength tearing at her defenses, the impending realization dawning on her that love wasn't her weakness.
She was her own weakness.
How do you get rid of yourself?
How can you lead people with your head held high and your fists clenched, when you don't even know how to function on your own?
She'd succumbed to the pressure, scribbling on a piece of ripped paper her goodbye, her apology and the plea of, "As my last demand as leader; please do not look for me."
Now she was here, alone living by the coast, her pathetic little makeshift tent and bonfire her home, the fishes in the sea her only company.
It's bittersweet, time doesn't seem to pass here, the only threat being wildlife and the creatures residing underneath the ravenous currents, but it's manageable.
She spends her days lethargically, collecting shells and adding declarations to her abode, idly putting her hair into intricate braids and drawing in the sand with her walking stick.
Sometimes she thinks she's insane, speaking to herself occasionally, laughing at her own jokes and crying and screaming into the dusk of night, the images of musky brown eyes and dusting freckles marring her dreams and haunting her through her days.
She doesn't exactly know if it's been three months, loses count of the days after a month and a half, tries not to think of her past life and the residing guilt that builds and fluctuates in her chest at the memories.
Before she had planned to stay here only to clear her head, but instead she's stayed inside her own mind; her worst enemy and best friend becoming herself.
Sometimes she wishes someone would find her, and other days she basks in the isolation and seclusion, the nagging reminder that nobody would look for her anyways being persistently avoided.
The people she loved most hated this person she had become, this stranger taking refuge in her body, the way he had looked at her afterwards, his conflicted gaze locking with her own, the way his smile dipped and strained into a thin line, the way his eyes glazed over with something she couldn't identify with.
Hate? No.
Resentment? Maybe.
Concern? Perhaps.
Disappointment? Yes.
But it wasn't just the disappointment in his eyes; it was in everyone's eyes.
In Octavia's sapphire jewel eye's, the unspoken scorn of her brother and her lover's life being put to risk at the blonde's words underlying ever glance. Raven's chocolate orbs resilient detachment to her all to obvious. Jasper and Monty's avoided eye contact when they had found out what she had done. Her mother's warm russet brown eyes now brittle and dully ashamed.
All the rest she had risked her life for looked to her with strangling sympathy and contempt.
It's quite beautiful today as she chases the swarming thoughts out of her head, the sun shining and the seagulls cawing in the air, the remnants of winter disassembling through the misty spray of air, the colors so entrancing that she feels her fingers curl at the sudden urgency to draw the sight in front of her.
Instead she strips her clothing until she's only left in her undergarments, the sand nipping at her toes and nudging it's way underneath her stubby nails as she wades further into the ocean, the familiar laps of water encasing her in its embrace, as if begging her to come closer, to be free and let go.
So she does.
She goes so deep that that land beneath her feet drops off, the chill of unoccupied sea arising goose bumps along her skin, her heart picking up in pace as anxious excitement courses through her veins, her mind focusing only on how far she can go, testing her strength and nourishing the need to feel at peace.
Its different today, the waves greedier in their pull and delicate in their push, her nerves in tangles and her heart in shambles, their names echoing in her mind, the dull reassurance that they were okay without her cutting deeper than before, the depth of her pain overwhelming her and she loses the will to float.
So she sinks, dunks her head under and lets the oxygen bubble up to the surface, the pressure on her lungs sinfully soothing, lulling her into a distant slumber, half-conscious as she remembers the words she had written specifically to him back and forth and running through and through.
"When we deny the EVIL within ourselves, we dehumanize ourselves, and we deprive ourselves not only of our own destiny but of any possibility of dealing with the EVIL of others."
― J. Robert Oppenheimer
Goodbye Bellamy.
Clarke.
"Judge me, I will understand
I'm ugly, only half a man
It's your country, and I'm contraband
Love me and I'll leave your land
When the under dogs rise again, I'll have my time
When my body starts turning in, I'll have my mind
Nothing is getting in, not even light
I'm gonna stay inside, stay inside."
Raleigh Ritchie