The moment he left, Clarke was sobbing. She hadn't cried this much since her father was killed and the sudden flash of pain that came with guilt reopened sealed wounds. She curled into a ball, thankful for the privacy, and clung to Bellamy's pillow, inhaling his scent in hopes of getting her mind off of what she had done. Thoughts clogged her head and muddled her sense of time. She didn't know if it had been ten minutes of an hour when the sound of a zipper against nylon broke her concentration.

"Please go," she said again, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. She was met with silence before a voice made her stiffen with hatred and fear.

"Hello, princess."

Clarke froze for a moment before turning over to meet the intense gaze of Murphy.

"Get out," she said quickly, managing to make her voice sound more stable than she felt.

He took a step forward, a look playing in his eyes that Clarke knew was anything but friendly. She shot up to her feet, defense mode kicking in.

"But why, Clarke?" he said smiling. "We have so much in common now." She didn't miss his slow step forward. He might have been saved more times than he was worth, but Clarke knew that she was nowhere near trusting him. He was responsible for Charlotte's death. They had banished him and if there was one thing Clarke knew about the psychological development of people like Murphy, it was that they often fail to forgive and forget. He was a threat.

"We have nothing in common, Murphy," she responded. "You're a sick person who murders innocent—" suddenly she stopped and her eyes widened because she realized that what he said was true. She was a murderer now too.

Murphy seemed to understand her pause and took advantage of her momentarily paralyzed state.

"See," he said, sounding more amiable than Clarke felt comfortable with. "We're just the same. I'm responsible for Charlotte's death and you're responsible for Finn's. We've both killed one of our own." He paused for a moment, as if in deep thought.

"Actually," he said chuckling. "I've killed three and you've got two: Atom and Finn. Gosh princess, you're almost beating me at my own game," and this time his smile was more hostile than friendly.

Thousands of stray thoughts were trying to piece themselves together in Clarke's mind, but all she could manage to say was:

"Three?"

"Yes, Clarke. Oh I guess you didn't know. Connor and Myles are on me too. Couldn't let them get away with what they did to me for what I didn't do."

Clarke remembered them trying to hang Murphy and then their sudden deaths. Both had been found unconscious and without pulse, but Clarke had attributed it to the disease.

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered, taking a step back. Her darting eyes gave away her fear.

Murphy looked at her easily. "Because you hate me. But guess what? You're just like me now. So you must hate yourself too. Poor, poor Clarke. Always so many people around you, putting responsibility on your shoulders and expecting for you to be capable of everything they ask. But you're gonna break princess, aren't you? Just like crazy Murphy. All that stress, all that pressure, it's gonna build up and then poof! Finn will just be one of many."

"Stop," Clarke spat out. "Stop."

"Why, princess? Can't handle the truth? Can't handle the pain?" His expression was furious now and his hands were shaking, but still he didn't touch her. It seemed that words were enough. He took another step forward, which was met with one of her own, but she hit the back of the tent and panic began to well up inside of her like the kindling of a flame.

"Don't call me that," she said, blinking back tears.

"Princess, princess, princess," he said mockingly. "You're such a coward, Clarke. You're so weak, so vulnerable. You act strong all of the time, but now I see that you're no better than me."

A strange feeling was spreading across her chest, a constricting claw that weaved its way from her heart and through her ribs. She gasped for air.

"Murphy, stop," she choked. "STOP!"

He closed the distance between them, a hand coming forcefully under her chin to direct her gaze at him. She felt the world closing in around her.

"How does it feel, princess?," he hissed. "How does it feel not to breath? To be an outcast, a murderer?"

"I can't—" she clutched her chest as a sharp stabbing made its way through her diaphragm. "Please—" she choked.

"How does it feel to have nobody to help you?"

Clarke tore away from his grip with her remaining strength and darted for the door, but a tight grip around her waist stopped her. She was flung to the ground with a thud, wheezing and pressing her palms against the center of her chest. Tears blurred her vision.

"Bye, princess."

She couldn't breathe.