24

Breathing

OCTAVIA

I slump in my saddle as the black gates of Arkadia take form in the darkness. I can't remember ever feeling this exhausted, this worn. The emotional upheaval of this night has left me more drained than any physical whipping I have ever taken. I've had my skin torn open. I've had joints twisted and snapped. I've had bones shattered. None of it compares to the beating my heart just took.

You would think the utter relief of discovering that your people, your family, everyone you care about... everyone you thought you had lost... Are actually alive and well, would fill me with bubbling joy and uncontainable happiness. And I am relieved... So relieved. But more than anything else, I am tired... So tired.

And I know the joy is there, under the relief. But my mind is struggling to get a firm grasp on it. Because everything was wrenched from my hands. And now everything has been returned. And all of it was so sudden that part of me is still staring down at my hands in disbelief. Part of me is still waiting for it all to be wrenched from me again, to spill from the clutches of my fingers like water.

And already the relief in my chest is permitting anxiety to join it. Like Relief is too kind and courteous to refuse Anxiety his offer of a dance. And Anxiety is leading and he is too fast and too forceful and he keeps stepping on Relief's toes. But Relief just hides her cringing behind a plastered smile as the two swirl and twirl and dance on inside of me.

Because I am so relieved that the walls of Arkadia are still standing and now both bullets and blades keep watch over them. But now Helios's nose is only feet from their gates and I promised myself I would never step through them again. And inside of me, Anxiety dips Relief too low, and she breaks a heel and stumbles from his clumsy arms and the dance is abruptly over. And Relief is now sitting in a folding chair in the corner nursing her wounds beneath droopy balloons while Anxiety prowls the dance floor in search of another partner, another victim.

I grip Helios's reins in my hands so tightly my knuckles throb with the tension. And I almost pull back on them. I could camp outside with the warriors of Trikru. I could yank on his reins and turn us around before we cross the line. I could. I could. I could.

But I hesitate just a moment and suddenly Helios has already crossed the line of his own accord. I'm not guiding him anymore. It seems HE still thinks of Arkadia as home. And he is happy to return. So happy that he purposefully takes a sudden step to the side so that my good leg scrapes painfully against the sharp metal edge of the open gate as we pass through it. What a big shit.

He carries me straight to the stables and buries his chestnut head in the trough of oats and hay before I can even dismount.

"Octavia! Indra!"

As I climb down from my saddle I'm greeted by two men dressed identically in the puffy black jacket of the Skaikru guards. I tramp right past the first, avoiding his eyes, avoiding his smile, avoiding his EVERYTHING, because I cannot look at him. And I fall into the arms of the second man, letting his scruffy beard scratch against my forehead for just a moment before I pull back again.

"Welcome... Back." Kane says. And I know he was about to say "home," and I am glad he thought better of it.

...

I pause at the door and take a deep breath, but the air does not reach the bottom of my lungs. It does not reach the burning. It does not reach the aching. So I close my eyes and lean against the metal. It is solid... So much more solid than I am. And I tell myself to try again. Another breath that is shallow, far too shallow. I am surrounded by nothing but air and I am suffocating.

"Fuck it." I say. "Fuck it."

I push the door open and take one shaky step inside, crossing the threshold with my eyes still pressed closed. I am terrified that when I open them everything will be exactly the way I left it. I am terrified that when I open them everything will have changed.

"Fuck it." I say. "Fuck it."

And I open my eyes to find everything exactly the way I left it. My trunk is still propped open, its contents spewing from it like vomit. The last time I was here I had torn through it like a thief who just heard the jingle of keys at the door, so hurried to get Lincoln's journal and get out, that I hadn't bothered to clean up after myself. The last time I was here I could not breathe. I still cannot breathe.

My legs feel wobbly, so I drop to my knees on the cold metal floor. I am surrounded by my things. Surrounded by his things. Surrounded by silence. Surrounded by air. And I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.

My belongings... His belongings... They are strewn and scattered about me, as mixed and tangled as we once were. Back when we would lay together and hold each other until our fingers entwined and our arms and legs tangled and our souls touched and mixed as messily as our breaths mingling in the space between us. Back when we would hold each other until there was no him and there was no me and there was only US. Back when I could breathe.

Lincoln's jacket still hangs limply from the back of the chair beside me. I wrap my fist around one sleeve and tug it so fiercely that the chair topples over onto its side with a jolting metallic clatter that echoes harshly off the metal walls enclosing me. I run my fingers over the material, tracing the bumps and ridges of the logo etched across its back... The markings of Sky Crew... The markings of the Ark. I dig my fingernails into the stitching along the rounded edges of the patch and I try to tear it at the seams. I claw at it. I pull and pull and pull. But the stitching is strong... Too strong. And I am weak... Too weak. So I release the jacket and let it fall to the floor where it becomes just another part of the mess around me.

And I drop to my elbows and press my forehead to the cold, unyielding floor. And I become just another part of the mess. The center... The core... The heart of the mess. And I try to breathe. And I try to breathe. And I try to breathe.

And something is rising. I can feel it. But it is more than just the anger. There is something mixed with the anger and it takes me a second to recognize it... Panic. Hot, prickly, panic. It is crawling in my chest like rats, gnawing at my lungs, clawing at my heart, burrowing into my stomach. The panic is rising. And I do not welcome it.

I push myself back onto my knees and reach frantically around me, wildly grabbing things at random. And I shove them back into the depths of the trunk. And I try to shove the panic back into the depths of myself. But it is rising. I slam the trunk shut and smash my forehead against it, more cold metal. Metal door... Metal walls... Metal ceiling... Metal floor. I am surrounded. I am enclosed.

I close my eyes and suddenly I am back in my hole, my metal cage beneath the floor. I am in the darkness. I am in the silence. I am all alone. And I cannot breathe. I cannot fucking breathe.

"I am not afraid." I tell myself. I whisper it like a prayer, again and again. I breathe it in. I breathe it out. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid."

I open my eyes to metal all around. And the panic is rising and spilling out of me, breaking out of my pores like sweat, leaking from my skin like tears, draining from my body like blood. And I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. And I can't breathe. I am suffocating. And I can't stay here a moment longer. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I throw myself through the door and down the hall, searching for an exit desperately like someone drowning, reaching for the water's surface, grasping with their fingertips for air. I burst into the chill of the outside world. And I breathe. And I breathe. And I breathe.

The morning sun is just breaking over the tips of the trees, shining weakly through the hazy layer of clouds, gently touching my cheek as if to say, "we both made it through, out of the darkness and into the light." I turn my back on the Ark, on the metal and fix my eyes on the trees and open sky above me. Open... So open. And I breathe. I breathe. I breathe. And I feel the panic receding like a beast, having feasted, now sauntering back into its cave.

"Octavia?" A voice calls out and I close my eyes. Because the panic is receding. But the anger remains.

"Octavia..." Bellamy calls to me again. "I saw you running through the hall. Are you alright?"

I breathe in. I breathe out. I try to fight the anger. But when I open my eyes again, the heat in my chest still lingers. The tightness is still in my jaw and in my fists and in the empty space around my heart.

I do not turn to him. I still cannot look at him. I walk away from him. I walk aimlessly. There is no particular "where" I am trying to get to. Nowhere but away from him.

Of course, he follows me. He always follows me. And I feel the anger rising.

"O..." He cries out and my steps stutter slightly under the sudden weight of his hand on my shoulder. "O... Please stop."

I try to shrug his hand off of me, but his grip is tight, persistent. Still, I barely break my stride.

"O, please... I just want to talk to you." Bellamy practically begs.

"Then talk." I growl. My voice is low again, gravelly and dangerous. I keep moving because the anger is still rising. It demands to be felt. And if I stop... If I look at him... It will erupt out of me. And I am trying to fight it. I am trying.

"I'm sorry, O." Bellamy says, and his voice is soft and tired and full of grief, but it does nothing to appease the anger, to ease the heat or the tightness. "I'm sorry for everything... EVERYTHING."

I stop and close my eyes. I breathe in. I breathe out. And I realize my fingers have found their way into my pocket. And I feel the ridges of the seashell, smooth and rippled, hard and brittle, solid and fragile, all at once. And I don't know when it became a habit to worry this shell in my fingertips. I cannot remember when it went from the pouch of my pack to the pocket of my pants. But it is here and the feel of its edges have become as familiar to my fingertips as the dry pages of Lincoln's journal. I clench my shaking fingers into a fist around the tiny shell and I try to fight the anger.

"I'm sorry, Octavia." He says again. "I'm sorry for everything... For every time I failed to listen to you. For every time I tried to control you. For every time I treated you like a child. For every time I treated you like a burden. For every time I made you feel small or weak or unwanted or alone... I'm sorry for every time I tried to protect you and for not seeing that you don't need my protection. Because you are not the little girl in the floor. You are strong. And Lincoln saw that. And Indra and Clarke and Kane... They all saw it. But I couldn't see your strength. But I see it now. And I'm sorry it took me so long... I'm sorry it took me so long to see you."

He pauses for a deep breath and I feel the anger burning in the back of my throat and in my eyes. Because I am angry... So angry at Bellamy. But I am so much angrier at myself.

Because I want to turn to him. I want to see his goofy, lopsided grin. I want to see my brother... The boy who always pulled me out of the floor and lifted me onto his back and gave me pony rides around our compartment until the fear left... Until I could breathe again. I want him to dig his sharp knuckles into my scalp and laugh as I slam my fists uselessly against his solid chest. I want him to hold me in his arms and kiss me on the forehead until I feel safe... Until I feel like I am home. I want to turn and see my brother.

But I open my eyes and suddenly realize my feet have carried me to the spot where Lincoln fell to the ground. And though the rain has long washed it away, I look at the dirt and all I see is red. And I know if I turn to Bellamy I will not see my brother. Because the boy with the grin and the laughter and the arms that felt like home... The boy who helped me breathe... That boy is gone. As gone as Lincoln. And if I turn to what is left of the boy I once loved, all I will see is red.

Bellamy's hand on my shoulder is heavy and hot and I feel my skin crawling beneath it, desperate to wriggle out from under its weight. "I'm sorry, Octavia." He says, yet again. "I'm sorry for everything. I want to make things right. Tell me how to make things right." His voice is pleading, desperate, peaked. And when I answer, my voice is lifeless and flat.

"I can't." Is all I say. I throw my shoulder back violently as I pull away from him. And I'm not sure if it was my motion that broke me free of his grasp or if his fingers finally released me.

I tromp towards the trees, away from Bellamy, away from the metal and the red dirt and the memories. But I haven't taken ten steps before I see her. And I wonder how long she has been standing there, watching. But the discomfort in her small smile is so poorly hidden that I know she heard and saw more than enough.

I return the offering of her smile with a tight-lipped glare. And I know I should smile. I know I should thank her for helping Trikru. I know I should close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. But the anger still pulses thickly through my blood like alcohol, clouding my mind, separating my thoughts from my actions. And my fist is still wrapped tightly around the seashell, but the anger is in control.

"Go ahead..." I hear myself say and it is like the snarl of a wild animal, of some beast breaking loose, escaping from the cavern of my soul. "Say it!"

Clarke just frowns at me, confused, nervous, uncomfortable. I should apologize. But I open my mouth and instead of "sorry," I hear the beast snarl again.

"Say it! Tell me I need to forgive him. Tell me I need to move on... Get over the anger... Learn to forgive and let go. Say it!"

I'm so angry my hands are trembling uncontrollably. The heat trapped inside of me is pressing against the thin walls of my body. It wants out. It wants to break free of me. I am about to burst open. I am about to catch fire.

I glare at Clarke and I want to see the anger in her too. I want her to shout at me as wildly as I shout at her. I want her to hit me, to break me. I want her to give me the pain I deserve.

But she just puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a weak, sympathetic smile.

"Octavia... I'm still trying to figure out how to forgive, myself."

Another fucking hand on my shoulder. And its weight is almost as repulsive as Bellamy's was. Because there is only one hand that can quell the anger. And it is not Indra's. It is not Luna's or Orna's or Roddek's. It is not Bellamy's. And it is not Clarke's.

And I wonder if Clarke can read my thoughts on my face because she lets her arm drop before I can move to push it away. And she turns and walks away before I can.

I feel the anger finally receding with every step she takes away from me. And its sudden absence leaves a painful emptiness in me as I move into the cold shade of the trees. And though the anger is gone, the burning in my throat and in my eyes has only intensified. And I cannot fight it anymore. I am too weak.

I press my back against the bark of a tree and let my body crumple, pulling my knees to my chest as I drop to the soft forest floor. And my body curls around itself until I am small again. And the flames in my throat and in my eyes finally give way to tears. They spill out of me and I wonder where all of this water could possibly come from, because I am hollow inside. As hollow as the seashell in my palm.

And without being asked to, the emptiness inside of me politely scooches over to make room for the loneliness.