Word Count: 3,049
Rating: M
Pairing: Implied Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Warning: Dark fic, blood, self-harm, angst, depression, cutting
AN: So, I've been wanting to write something dark and angst-filled for a while now but preferably without having to kill one of the two main characters. And well, this didn't let me sleep, study or write anything else until I sat down and wrote it, lol. Sorry to all those of you who have been patiently waiting for a Whiteness update, that will come by the end of the week, hopefully.
Broken Mirrors
Clarke hated mirrors.
Mirrors were supposed to be the reflection of the soul, echoes of one's life, image of one's actions. They were supposed to show you a picture you should be happy to live with.
And Clarke deeply despised that.
She wasn't happy, she was miserable. She wasn't laughing; she was crying her heart out. She wasn't on cloud nine, she was six feet under. She wasn't floating, she was drowning. She wasn't climbing towards the top; she was too busy falling down, down, down…
Depressed couldn't even begin to describe her current situation.
The motel was cheap, the paint was coming off the ceilings, most of the room Clarke was currently staying in didn't have wallpapers and the one wall that did was covered in mould. The walls were paper-thin – her neighbours were having an argument, more like a screaming match, for the twenty-sixth time since Clarke had checked in four days ago.
The bathroom was even more disgusting. The tub was covered in strange green substance that Clarke didn't even try to figure out; the toilet seat was busted, one of the plastic shower doors was missing but at least the water was running and even cold showers were better than nothing.
Not like she deserved a hot shower.
She was nothing.
She was a disappointment, a let-down, a ruin.
She was dirty, she was used, she was no good.
She didn't deserve a happy end.
She was useless.
Nobody would miss her.
Clarke took a look in the bathroom mirror – black ripped skinny jeans, a faded grey t-shirt hid her showing ribs, her once healthy body was now simply a skinny frame, sickly pale skin, and wet flattened hair, dark shadows under her lifeless eyes.
She was a ghost.
She was ugly and she was broken.
Her life was meaningless now.
She raised her hand; her actions were on auto-pilot. Clarke opened the mirror cabinet. The steps were so familiar to her – it was now a second nature to gaze into a mirror and to not see herself.
She ignored the shaking in her arm as she applied concealer under her eyes, the shadows faded. The foundation gave a fake glow to her dull skin tone. The black eyeshadow was just another part of her recent routine – it made her eyes pop, the blue of her irises was as striking as ever but it was muted now, drab, lacking the usual sparkle. The tremors in her arm increased but the black eyeliner was applied perfectly, the mascara followed shortly with nearly no clumps.
Clarke tried to smile but her lip cracked and a tiny dot of red made its way down her chin. She was fast to wipe the blood with a tissue and applied lip balm to soothe her dry lips. The smell of cherry hit her hard and her head started pulsing. Next, her lipstick was the colour of her blood and it drew the attention away from her eyes. She hated it.
She hated everything about her image - the lipstick, the blackness of the eyeshadow, the need for concealer, everything.
She couldn't afford a blush so she mixed some of the lipstick with her lip balm on the back of her hand and dusted the muted shade across her cheeks. It hurt to smile.
It hurt to live.
But this was what she deserved.
Nobody cared about her anymore.
She was no longer daddy's little princess or mommy's bright sunshine.
Her dad was dead and her mother blamed her for taking him away.
Clarke closed her eyes – her reflection was pathetic to look at and she couldn't stand it.
When did she become so weak, so hopeless?
Where was her spirit, her bravery, her smile?
They were all gone; she was just a shell now.
She tried to control her breathing, she couldn't afford another panic attack and risk being late yet again for her job in that run-down bar she couldn't stand the smell of; but she needed the money or kiss her bed goodbye.
The memories overwhelmed her.
The smell of spring, her dad's infections laughter, the smile on her mother's face, the up-beat song on the radio that she was singing along to, the pencil in her arm as she sketched the breathtaking sunset outside her car window … and then the breaks, the smell of burned rubber, the screams, the crash, the pieces of broken glass in her hair, the stings of open wounds, the blood.
From one moment to the next – it was all over in a matter of seconds.
Her dad didn't survive.
Her mom did but she refused to accept the reality, the truth, she blamed Clarke; she was accepted in a mental hospital after she tried to choke her own daughter for her sins.
Her own mother tried to kill her.
A muffled sob escaped her mouth.
A 'devil's spawn', that was what her mother had called her, a demon, a fucked-up pointless existence, a waste of oxygen.
Only if Clarke's dad hadn't turned around to smile at her, only if the driver of the other vehicle hadn't had too much to drink that night, only if the lights had stayed red, only if…
But 'only if' wouldn't bring her father back.
Nor the friends who had left her behind, nor the only person that cared about her and whom she had pushed away.
But it was better that way, he deserved somebody better than her, somebody who was whole and unstained, a girl that would be there for him.
Bellamy didn't need her, she was a wreck.
Broken from her father's death, broken from her mother's words, broken from the betrayal and abandonment of her friends, broken in million little pieces she would never be able to pick up and glue back together.
She was marred with scars that couldn't heal, her soul was damaged, her spirit broken, her delight was drowned under her misery, she had stopped living few weeks ago.
Get up, put on make-up, go to work, ignore the sexual harassment, get the few tips someone left, get off work, pay her rent for the day, take a shower to wash the cigarette smoke off her skin, sleep. Repeat.
Her limbs were shaking so hard by that point that Clarke had to grab the sink or risk falling down.
The life was leaving her body, every new breath was a painful gulp of oxygen that burned her lungs and weighted heavily on her heart. This day by day survival was killing her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Nobody would give a fuck about her anyway.
Her reflection was blurry, part because of the tears clouding her eyes, and part because that was one dirty mirror.
Her teeth sank into her lower lip as the nearly physical pain of her loneliness hit her.
There was no running from this, no getting over it. She couldn't do it alone and there was nobody to offer her a helping hand.
In the end she had to be her own hero.
But she had no strength left to haul herself out of this misery hole.
Her lip started bleeding again. The blood mingled with her lipstick and ran down her chin in small rivers of red, the metallic scent assaulted her senses as she ran her tongue over the cut to try and stop the flow of blood.
But the blood was stubborn and Clarke raised her hand to brush it away from her chin, smudging her lipstick in the process. Her tears had made pale strikes on her cheeks where the cheap foundation had washed away. The dark shadows under her eyes mocked her and as she blinked to clear her vision drops of black liquid sprinkled her face.
Her laugh was hollow and hysteric.
Make-up, how she hated it.
It was mask, a visage that other people preferred to see.
Nobody liked to see the pain etched on people's faces and make-up became the solution for many.
And Clarke's last defence.
But now even that was cracking, running down her face.
And she screamed and screamed and screamed until her voice was hoarse and her throat hurt and her neighbours were shouting for her to shut her mouth.
She screamed her pain, her humiliation, her worthlessness, her fears, her confusion, her fury, her loathing, her revulsion, her remorsefulness, her betrayal, her heartache, her anguish, everything.
And she screamed for help, for love, for happiness, for joy, for understanding, for acceptance, for confidence, for strength, for hope, for something worth living for.
But the bickering of her neighbours was her only response.
And she laughed again and her bitter laugh turned to forlorn cry and she buried her face in her shaking arms and she cried until she was out of tears.
Her mirror image was even more pitiful than before.
Her make-up was ruined, the same way Clarke felt.
Her eyeshadow was just a big mess of black surrounding her teary eyes, black wet lines of eyeliner and mascara covered her improvised blush and stained her smudged lipstick. Her hands were painted in black and red and the beige of her foundation.
She touched the mirror.
When did this become who she was?
This damaged, sad young woman that she couldn't recognise?
The eyes that didn't belong to her face, the skin tone that spoke of grief, the sharp bones visible under her paper-thin skin. When did it become that bad?
Her shaky fingers caressed her dirty smeared reflection.
If this was her then she didn't want to see anymore.
This empty vassal wasn't her; but she was the vassal.
Clarke put no conscious thought in her movement when she drew her hand back, clenched her fist and hit the centre of her image with all her might.
Pain erupted in her fingers and her wrist hurt from the force she had used and hadn't been aware she still possessed. Million little pieces of the mirror fell in the sink, the bigger ones hitting the porcelain with deafening cracking sounds, breaking again and again, littering the dirty white tiles of the bathroom.
The harsh light of the bathroom lamp was reflected by the mirror's million parts and thousand upon thousand distorted reflections of Clarke started her from the now full sink.
Tiny drops of blood painted some of her faces.
Red was such a fascinating colour.
Clarke opened her fist and cried out in pain – she had few small pieces of the fucking mirror stuck in her fingers, her hot red life liquid running rampant from her cuts.
Her hand was covered in red, so much red, just like that night.
She dry heaved over the sink as the blood illuminated her worst memories.
Clarke felt sick, and weak.
Her knees nearly gave out.
She was hugging the sink, her hands gripping the sides so hard that her knuckles were white, one covered in red.
She started at the mirror pieces and they started back – reflections showing her helpless eyes, the despair painted on her face, images painted in black and red, and ones with her tears on them. And there were others - some focused on her awful hair, some chasing her reflection every time she moved, some enchanted by her split lip, some gazing at the white light of the ceiling.
There were so many.
And Clarke hated them all.
She just wanted to stop hurting, to stop the pain, the agony.
Her breathing slowed down.
Her hurt hand reached across and her fingers wrapped around one of the bigger pieces, the sharp edges dug in her flesh and warm liquid ran over the other broken pieces.
She lifted the mirror closer to her face and took a good look in it for the first time in two months.
The woman that looked back was just a mere shadow, a fragmented echo of the person she once used to be.
When did she turn into this apparition?
When did she lose herself so bad that there was no way out of this vicious circle of self-hate and sorrow?
Had she hit the bottom?
Clarke's fingers clenched harder around the mirror and the blood flow increased.
But that didn't matter.
She had nobody for whom to try and crawl out of this hole.
She was forgotten.
And maybe it was better that way.
The shaking of her body stopped.
Yes, it was better that way.
Her other hand let go of the sink and she raised it palm up to her face.
Red, it was such a beautiful colour.
The first cut on her skin with the mirror hurt like no other and blood gushed out, red, red blood, and the smell of iron. The second was both easier and harder. By the third the shaking was back.
The redness mesmerised her and the pain faded in the back of her mind.
The fourth cut was uneven and sinuous.
The fifth never came.
Her hands were shaking beyond control, the mirror piece slipped from her fingers, her heartbeat increased, the blood painted her arms, the sink, the pieces, the floor, all red. She was going into shock.
Clarke stumbled back and she hit the bathroom door. Her legs gave out and she slumped to the floor. The blood from her hands had long ago stained her grey shirt. Hell, she had blood on the ends of her hair.
Her gaze never moved from the sink.
She was like those mirror pieces now – broken, bloody, twisted, incomplete.
Her lips crooked in a self-mocking smile.
Apparently this was the end for her – dying in a cheap, dirty motel room in a pool of her own blood. Who would have thought that the great Clarke Griffin would end like this?
At least her mom would finally sleep soundly.
But thinking about her mom brought more pain and more hate and if she was to leave this world she would do it with happier memories.
Like the time her dad taught her how to ride a bicycle, and the hike in Mount Weather, the summer she spend with her friends in 'the 100' camp and the catch-the-flag battles they had with the other camp – the 'grounders', the night Jasper got her drunk because of his weird and highly-alcoholic cocktails, her friendly teasing with Monty, the art supplies gifts from Wells, her first kiss with Bellamy, the acceptance letter for the Medical university in Charlottesville, the daring skinny dipping she had done with Octavia because of a dare, Bellamy's surprise date for their six months anniversary and their first night together, the watch her father had given her for their last Christmas together…
Happy memories, yes, she wanted to end her existence with happy memories.
She didn't know how much time had passed and how much more was left but she was already feeling lethargic and cold and sleepy, definitely sleepy.
Humming her favourite song was no longer possible, her concentration was shit and her eyelids felt heavy.
Maybe she should sleep for a bit, sleep sounded nice and so tempting right now.
There was some commotion next door – banging of doors and shouts, heavy steps running, more banging.
Gosh, one day her neighbours would end up killing each other.
She closed her eyes.
It felt nice.
A sound – like a closed door being forced open – made her twitch and grumble. Couldn't they be quiet for a fucking minute?
Steps, those sounded closer. Somebody was shaking her shoulder, calling her name. Something pressed down on her open cuts and she whimpered in pain. A hand on her neck checked her pulse.
"Come on, princess; open your pretty eyes for me." The voice was sad and chocked.
Clarke disliked the anguish in it.
The whole point of this was so that she would stop causing pain to people.
"Please, Clarke, please." The pleading got to her and Clarke forced her remaining energy to open her eyes.
The form of the person was blurry but she knew that shaggy black hair and that voice, the warmth of the hands holding her upright and the lovely eyes that were filled with tears.
"Bell..amy?" Her mouth was dry and it hurt to speak.
"Shh, it's alright, I got you now."
He took off his jacket and covered her with it – the heat was nice and Clarke felt sleepy all over again. She could only watch as he ripped pieces of his shirt and bandaged her arms and fingers.
"Don't you dare close your eyes." His voice was still unstable but Clarke noticed the way he tried to insert some of that arrogance and cockiness she teased him for.
When he was done he put one of his hands under her legs and the other around her shoulders. Bellamy lifted her with no problems and carried her out of the bathroom and out of the room.
"How..d-..-ound-..me?"
He made his way to the parking lot and looked down at her.
"I finally tracked you down and found out where you work. But you didn't show up for your shift and I made your boss tell me where you were staying. And thank god for that."
She hummed in agreement and rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling closer to his warmth.
He opened the door of his car and sat in the driver's seat, Clarke in his lap.
Bellamy was afraid that if he ceased touching her for even one second she would slip right through his fingers and disappear once and for all. He arranged her limbs gently and turned the heating on, Clarke was freezing. He turned the car on, changed gears and drove as fast as he could to the nearest hospital.
"Never again, Clarke, never again." His hand wove in her still damp hair and he kissed the top of her head. His heart was still beating wildly and he was terrified, he couldn't afford to lose her, not now, not ever. "Say it."
His breath was hot against her ear and she shivered for different reasons. Oh, how much she had missed him.
"Ne..ver agai..n."
He kissed her forehead and shifted gears.
Clarke fell asleep to the beat of his heart.
Maybe she didn't have to be whole to be loved by someone.
I was debating if I should let Clarke die in Bellamy's arms, but well that ending didn't really want to write itself, lol.
So, yeah.
Tell me what you think about it.
- M.