One Year of The 100 - Favorite Male Character POV - John Murphy
Also posted to my tumblr: I-mthebadguy (Taking Requests/Anon ask enabled)
It was a habit he hadn't expected to acquire. It happened so gradually that he hardly even noticed. He would stock an extra apple into his jacket pocket, or curl up some crackers into a clean sock. Every meal he would bring back a small piece of it to stow away into the lone drawer he had in his tent. Many of the 48 had been able to squeeze into rooms within the Ark's broken cavity, but he couldn't bear more than a minute inside those white walls. It was suffocating. The tent, however, felt loose and free of closure. It reminded him of his few days within the 100 camp. It was much simpler back then, but even that image was dissipating away. Murphy ran a hand over his throat and could swear he felt the tug of the rope ghosting his skin. He could still feel the glares of the other delinquents as they strung him up, chanting Bellamy's name in an effort to get him to push the box out from beneath him. His breath shortened as he froze by the bedside, memories flooding his vision as he fought to stay conscious. He could still remember the defeated look on Mbege's face. His friend had fought to protect him while the others had been kicking him on the ground, but his efforts were useless once he had been strung up.
He winced slightly as he shoved the spare drawer beneath his bed, hand trembling on the edge of it. The drawer was already overflowing with small snacks. Rotten apples, rolls of crackers, wrapped bread, dried fruit, and so much more. He still hadn't touched any of the contents. He had merely stocked them up and left them there to waste, sparing them a glance every now and then to check that none of it had vanished. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't help but continue stashing away the food. The memory of an empty stomach was far too loud to ignore. That was one of the reasons he could not return to the walls of the Ark. It only amplified the feeling. It only drew back the memories with a harder punch. Those nights when he was stuck in the room, watching his mother waste away on booze. She would go into short rages and hold the food away from him. Punishment for killing his father. Punishment for ruining her life. He had gotten used to the rumbling of his stomach, and hardly noticed when classmates glanced over at him when it occurred. The pinching pain had dulled into the background, and it felt easier to hold out on food than to supply it. He had once been moderately built, but it had shriveled away within a short time. It wasn't until he had received normal rations within the sky box that he was able to regain a normal body weight.
Murphy slowly pulled himself onto his bed, or rather the heap of sheets tossed upon a rickety array of logs made up to form a bed. He hadn't been able to get his hands on one of the ark-made ones, and after living on the ground for a week he had set out to make his own. It was shitty to say the least. His back had hurt for the first month, but as he rounded into the second month he no longer noticed the ache in his limbs. It was just normal now. Just like his habit of pocketing his meals. He groaned as he ran a hand over his face, drawing red marks down his cheek as he clawed his dulled nails down his skin. He missed the sting of his wounds. He missed the uncertainty of tomorrow. It had meant something to fight for. But here, here he was in a state of empty safety. There wasn't anything to fight for and nothing to keep his mind busy.
His eyes shifted towards the edge of his tent where the flap was twitching in the wind. The weather had been worsening slowly as they drew further into winter, but this was the coldest day by far. Murphy shifted off of the bedside to run his fingers through the small stems in the ground at the back of his tent. He had stolen some seeds from the kitchen, and a few buds had begun to pull up from the dirt. He traced a finger down the leaf of one of the sprouts with a sad smile. The cold would kill it soon, and his efforts to distract himself would shrivel just as quickly.
A sigh cascaded off of his lips as he drew back up onto his feet and shuffled towards his bed. The flaps of his tent had thrust themselves open and unleashed a burst of frosty air, and so he now bounded into bed. The impact was a bit too much and the rickety scaffolding of the logs shivered and sprung apart. A jolt surged through his body as he fell down with the bed, a sharp cracking slicing the air as the thin logs snapped and crunched. A softer crinkling and squishing noise burst through the collective sound, and he felt his heart drop to his stomach. His stash. Murphy scrambled off of the bed and pushed the bed upwards to scratch at the crushed drawer. He yanked it out and dropped the bed back down, letting it clunk to the floor. The fruit was crushed and grinded into a chunky paste. The crackers were nothing but crumbs and they were blowing away quickly. A groan traced his lower lip as he tossed the food aside, a yell burning his throat as he barely held himself together. The stash was the only thing he could control, and now even that had been taken away. A sob surged through his body and he pulled his legs up to his chest as he rocked himself back against the fallen bed.
He wasn't used to this lack of control. Or the lack of someone to keep him under wraps. He hadn't wanted to admit it earlier, but now he knew he truly needed Mbege back. The boy had been there throughout it all, and had even followed him into the skybox to protect him. He had kept him under control, yet allowed Murphy to lead the way. They balanced each other out, and now he didn't even have him to keep himself together. Bellamy had said that he was one of the first victims of the grounders. He had been lifted up into the trees, throat slashed, and dropped back down like a broken toy. Murphy had hit Bellamy when he had heard the news. He had to be restrained and held in isolation, or rather holed up in his tent with a guard at the door. He had grumbled an apology later on, but he still had yet to take part in a real conversation with any of the 48. He wasn't a part of them, and he couldn't find it in himself to try to fit in. They merely whispered behind his back about his outburst or the way he slipped a vine of grapes into his pocket. To them he was dysfunctional. He was a waste of a meal. But maybe they were right. Maybe there was nothing left to hold on to.
Murphy jammed his fist against his eyes as he rocked into the bedside. The biting snap of the cracked wood against his spine eased the tension in his muscles. He rocked back again and again and again. He had found a corner that had been broken, split away to reveal a jagged outcropping. He rocked back again. The shirt snagged against the wood and he felt it scrape through to grind at his flesh. Again. The shirt was fine, but blood was dotting it. Again. A crimson line smeared the fabric.
Again. He rocked himself onto his side and laid out parallel to the beaten wood. He slammed his head back and an ache jolted through his skull. Again. The headache persisted and grew. Again. His vision was blurry. Again. He could hear someone shouting his name. Again. Hands were shuffling along his arms. Again. The wood wasn't there anymore. Instead there was a soft fabric covering a solid form. Again. The voice was soft and seemed to coo. Again. He could feel arms wrapped around him. His head was beating against air. Murphy moved to throw his head back again and he felt himself curl into the form instead. A shiver was running down his spine and his head ached. The voice was soothing, dare he say loving. It told him to rest. It told him that everything was fine. He knew it wasn't Mbege, but he allowed himself to entertain the idea. And soon, he let it pull him into sleep so that he could see his friend once more. Even if it was only a dream, it felt real and it felt right. It felt like home. And that home never made him feel more alive.