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Clarke has too much blood on her hands, but Bellamy is there to help wash it away.
(This story was originally written in 2017 and has been updated for composition and clarity in 2020.)
1,280 words | [PG-13]
(This story was originally written in 2017 and has been updated for composition and clarity in 2020.)
1,280 words | [PG-13]
Clarke staggers through the trees towards the rush of water she hears in the distance. Her right hand presses against a growing pain in her side. Her left hangs limply, knife dangling from her fingertips. The noise of the river drowns out the echoing screams of death in her head.
She falls to her knees on the bank, retching until the bile erases the bitter taste of copper that stings the back of her throat.
So much blood.
It’s everywhere—staining her clothes, caking her hair, dripping from her eyelashes. She stares at her hands—sticky with red—until they blur behind a curtain of tears. She thrusts her hands into the freezing water, scrubbing her skin raw, but the red isn’t going away.
Her chest seizes up as another sob wracks her.
It’s not my blood.
“Clarke?”
She’s not sure if she’s relieved or terrified that it’s Bellamy that followed her. She goes back to scrubbing the blood from her hands. Bellamy squats next to her, pulling her hands from the water to hold between his. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and wipes a line of blood trickling from her temple.
“What do I do?” she whispers. “I can’t get it off.”
He looks down at her hands. “They’re clean, Clarke.”
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