Chapter 1- Just Sign Here
Cold, metal walls grip me. The machine buzz of the ark dripped off the walls and into my skin. I don't feel it. I don't feel much of anything. My mother was floated. My brother had been fired. Yeah, brother. I am the sister. I am the girl under the floor. Now I am the girl in a cell. Guess I was never meant to be much of anything.
There isn't much to do in a empty cell with only 2 beds and toilet. You can sleep, use the bathroom, and think. I bet you can guess which one I spent most of my time doing.
Thinking. I've come to hate thinking. I think about a lot of things. A lot things I'd rather not. Like how a was arrested for being alive.
I've tried to hate Bellamy. He took me to that dumb party. He should have expected something like that to happen.
I've tried to hate my mom. Why did she have me? Why couldn't she just be a normal person and get an abortion when she got pregnant with a second child?
I've tried to hate which ever guy got my mom pregnant. Actually I succeeded in that endeavor. I do hate him.
But most of all, I just hate myself. What's the point of me? Had I never been arrested, I would have spent the rest of my life living in a 1 bedroom house, leeching off of my family. I would never been able to have a job or a life, instead spending all my days sitting in a small room waiting in fear for the next time I have to go under the floor.
I am a waste of the little space I take up.
Sighing to myself, I wipe frustrated tears from my face. This internal conversation had become a regular thing for me now. I haven't slept much. Sleeping is full of nightmares. So is staying awake though.
A voice suddenly breaks me from my thoughts. "Prisoner 310. Please stand and face the wall." Wow. Must be feeding time already. I thought it would be another 8 hours. Maybe it has been. Time moves different here. I oblige, and stand and face the wall. Then a hear it. Screams. Screams with enough pain and curses and cries to be made by a thousand people. Except, they were all coming from the mouth of what sounded like one girl. I hear the door of my cell swing open. I resist the urge to turn around. The screams get louder and louder, until I'm sure they are coming from someone in my doorway. I turn around. Multiple guards are working to try and control a blonde girl, who is screaming, and punching, and sobbing, and kicking. They finally manage to throw her onto the ground of my cell and close the door, before she can get out. That doesn't stop her. I watch, heart beating rapidly, as the blonde girl flies at the door. Her fists beat at the door, each hit causing a repetitive thump. Over and over she punches the door, not tiring or wincing at the pain she must be feeling. She screams curses and sobs. I start to see blood on the door. She must be hurting her hands really badly. She doesn't seem to care. For some reason I do. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the second time I've ever spoken to someone who wasn't my mom or brother.
"You should stop. You're hurting yourself." My words come out weaker than I wanted. I am surprised to see a fault in her attacks as she pauses to look back at me. For second we stand there, about 8 feet apart, taking each other in. Her eyes are blue, very blue. And very red. Tears streak down pale cheeks. Messed up blonde hair frames her face. And, oh god, there are so many emotions going on in those eyes. Then she shuts them. I watch as she seems to melt onto the ground, slowly breaking and folding in on herself. She slides onto the floor an pulls her knees to her chest and her head in her arms. Sobs rack her body, cutting through the almost silence, and her small frame shakes violently.
I am terrified. I have no idea what to do. I've never socialized with someone besides from my mom and brother. Sure I used to think of scenarios all time, but they never went like this. A question pops into my head. What would Bellamy do? Take care of her, the answer is obvious. I notice the girl's bloody knuckles dripping down her arms. That's somewhere to start.
I tear two strips of cloth from a bed sheet, then run them under the pathetic sink. I approach her cautiously. She doesn't look up. I'm not sure if that is a good sign or not. I kneel down beside her and carefully pick up one of her hands. I half expect her to pull away, but she doesn't, instead letting me guide her hand to the wet cloth without looking up. I silently clean up her hands, wiping blood from bruises and cuts that now litter her knuckles. When I'm satisfied with my work, I tie a stripe of cloth firmly, but not too tightly, around each hand like a bandage. After that, my hands fall awkwardly to my sides again. I study the girl. She studies her knees. After what seems like forever, she looks up at me.
"Th- Thank you." She whispers hoarsely. I nod. I see tears pool in her eyes. What do I do? Bellamy used to give me hugs. They always used to make me feel better. Are hugs something you do with people who aren't family? I think so. I've heard of friends giving each other hugs. I go for it, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her gently towards me. She seems a bit surprised at first, but doesn't pull away. She even leans in a bit. Before I know it, her head in on my shoulder and she's crying softly into the crook of my neck. I am terrified. I don't know what's happening, but for some reason it feels right.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
It's been a few hours. I think. There's not much of a way to tell in here. The girl's head still rests on my shoulder. Her cries have turned into something more like a whimper. She's either all out of tears or she's falling asleep. Maybe both. My own eyelids feel heavy. A few minutes later, the girl's whimpers turn to snores. I sigh and shift out from beneath her, then stand. I lean over and gently pull her off the floor. She mumbles in confusion.
"I think it's time we get you to bed." I tell her softly. She attempts half a nod, and lets me guide her to the bed across from my own. I lower her onto it and pull the sheets up around her. Then I lay on my own bed. For the first time in a while, I welcome sleep.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
I wake up to the dull metal wall of my cell. Rubbing my eyes, I turn over onto my side, only to see blue eyes staring back at me from across the room. Oh. Right. My new cellmate. I remember all the happened last night. I observe her. Her face seems raw and her hair still a mess, but her eyes are no longer swimming in tears. Instead she stares at me with something close to curiosity. I flash her what I hope is a welcoming smile. I am relived when she gives me a small nod in return. I pull myself up into a sitting position. I stare at her nervously, thinking of something to say.
"You feeling any better?" I ask. She shrugs silently. At least I got a response. I look to the door and see two full food trays lying on the floor. I guess she really is my new cellmate. The guards must have brought the food while we were asleep. They probably did that on purpose, I think, remembering her violent attacks on the guards. Figuring she's as hungry as I am, I cross the room and grab the trays, then hand one to her.
"Thanks." She says quietly. I give her a nod in return and retreat to my own bed. I eat my disgusting prison food. It's similar to what I grew up on. She picks at her food, not eating a bite.
"I hope you're not picky. They don't give us much in here." I tell her. She shakes her head.
"I'm just not hungry." She says, pushing aside her tray. I frown but don't say anything. We won't get a meal another meal for a while. I guess that's not my problem.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Clarke." She whispers. "Your's?"
"Octavia." Like her, I skip the last name. She nods. I am relieved when she doesn't recognize me as the girl under the floor.
"It's nice to meet you." Ugh, she sounds like a privileged kid. "Sorry I was so, uh, you know, last night." She looks down to her banged hands. "Thank you. You were really great." I feel a small warmth inside me. It feels nice to be thanked. Maybe she won't be so bad.
"It's okay." I say awkwardly. "Do your hands hurt?" She lets out a humorless laugh.
"Yeah. Definitely."
"You regret beating up the door?" I ask. Her eyes cloud with haunted emotions.
"I regret a lot things." She says. I nod. I know how she feels.
"I guess where in the same boat then. Or, cell." She rewards me with a small smile for my bad joke.
"You want to talk about it?" She offers. I consider it.
"Not really." I guess I'm not really ready to tell all me secrets to a stranger. She looks relieved.
"Good. I didn't really want to either." She admits. I nod. Whatever had her that upset yesterday couldn't be easy to talk about. We sit in silence for a while. Finally she breaks it. "So.. uhh, what do like to do?" She asks awkwardly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you have any hobbies or anything?" She almost looks nervous. I automatically move to shrug no, but then stop to think. I did have things to pass time in my small apartment. I didn't like most of them though. Except reading. I love that you can get lost in an entire new universe just by looking at words. It was amazing being able to lose myself in other people's lives.
"Reading, I guess. I love a good book." I tell her. She smiles. "What about you?"
"Art. I love art. Mostly drawing. You ever drawn?" She asks.
"Not much. It's been a while. I use to draw on my bro- I mean- my tablet." I say. She nods. That was close. I sigh. Then her face lights up like she just remembered something. I stare, terrified, at her. To my relief she just digs into her pocket and pulls something out. A black stick. "What's that?" I ask. She grins.
"Charcoal." She says. I still look confused. "It's used for drawing." Oh. "I forgot I had this. Wells must have…." She trails off. I watch as her grin fades. Her look of amazement at the utensil turns into looking at it like it did something to offend her. Her hands shake. Her eyes pool with tears. She snaps the charcoal in half and throws it furiously onto the ground. I watch in confusion.
"Clarke, what's-?"
"Never mind." Her voice breaks and she lays down on the bed and turns to face the wall. I sigh quietly. I thought we were getting somewhere. I want to ask what's wrong but I know better. After a few minutes of watching her back, I decide to do something.
I slide onto the floor quietly, picking up one of the pieces of charcoal. It feels wrong in my hand. I am no artist. I do not deserve this ancient art tool. Yet, I drag it along the metal floor, spelling my name in my neatest cursive. I add shading and shadows and doodles of butterflies. I make it as pretty and artistic as my non-artist hands can do. When I am pleased with my work, I kneel and grab the second piece of charcoal, then face Clarke's back. Taking a deep breath, I start.
"Hey, Clarke?" She doesn't turn around to face me but somehow I know she's listening. "You know, my life was pretty messed up. A lot happened. It's been painful, and from what I can tell, yours has been too. I've done things. You've done things. Shit happened." Real poetic, Octavia. "But, maybe, this isn't the end of our life, you know? I don't think our lives should be defined by one thing. By one moment. Our lives are made up of billions of moments, and anyone can be a turning point if we make it one." I don't remember when she turned to face me, but she is now. I search her blue eyes for something. Anything. "Let's make this our turning point. Help me make this our turning point." I hold out the second piece of charcoal. An offer. An offer of friendship, or change, or rehabilitation, or hope, or something I do not know. Her hand twitches. She reaches forward and takes the charcoal from my hands. I sort of point, or acknowledge, the empty space beside my name. Without a word she slides onto the floor beside me a begins. I watch in curiosity as she works. Her letters start off as all caps and print, but become so much more. Drips of water slide down the C. The R is a lion. The L, a tree. When she is finished, she turns to stare at me. A smile spreads across her lips. A small, but yet very genuine, smile.
It's a start.