Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Clarke burst from her tent with your knife in her soft hands, calling you a son of a bitch (which you silently agreed with, just a little bit), you reached for the knife but she held it from your reach, accusing you of killing Wells. You rolls your eyes, turning immediately to Bellamy to ask if he believes this crap. No answer. So you continue. Yeah, you fought with Wells. Yeah, you threatened him. Lots of people hated Wells. That didn't mean that you killed him. Octavia said something about how you tried to kill Jasper too and you find yourself rolling those blue eyes with a scoff. You exclaimed that you don't have to answer to them; you doesn't have to answer to anyone. And that's the exact moment that Bellamy decided to finally speak up, "Come again?"

You froze, your eyes locking with the brown ones you've grown to admire so much. He can't be serious. You beg Bellamy to believe you, but things get out of hand before much of anything else can be said. You're tackled to the ground, punched and kicked and beaten until you can feel warm blood on your face. Then you were teetering on top of a bucket, balancing on your toes with a red seat belt wrapped neatly around your neck while you begged through the gag in your mouth.

You begged the same name that the crowd chanted: Bellamy. Over and over again. Bellamy, please. Bellamy. Bellamy. He walked towards you and for a moment you felt relief, thinking that maybe he would cut you down.

Instead, you fell and the red seat belt bit into the skin on your neck and you couldn't catch a single breath.

Revenge. Connor was first. Myles was next. Smothered. But with Myles, Jasper interrupted. You held him at gunpoint, this boy that you once referred to only as Goggles. You followed Bellamy on the mission to rescue him when you all first landed on the ground, but now, you're ready to shoot him at one wrong move. The damn kid had the radio on, and Bellamy's voice materialized. "Bellamy doesn't have to know what?" You're thinking quick on how to fix this. Everything happened so quickly, and you are swapping Jasper for Bellamy. Always the hero, ready to sacrifice himself for his people. This time, it worked out to your benefit. Bellamy ended up being the one at the end of your gun.

It was everything you had ever dreamed of. Bellamy Blake, helpless and at your will. "I want you to feel how I felt. And then I want you to die." You instructed Bellamy to tie his own noose and put it around his neck. He was starting to get angry, and that only fueled the fire that you could feel burning in the pit of your stomach. You smirk as you watched him, his calloused fingers tied the knots tightly, as if to prove to you that he will never half-ass a single thing, as if to prove that he's still better than you.

Things begun to spiral out of control, and you felt your revenge slipping through your thin fingers where your nails still haven't grown back. You shot the gun through the floor, thinking it was Octavia beneath the metal in hopes to get another rise from the freckle-faced victim you once admired so dearly.

You kicked the chair from beneath Bellamy's feet, and only gave yourself a few seconds to watch as he flailed, grasping at the red seat belt around his neck.

You were still with the group of Bellamy, Finn, some others that you didn't bother to learn the names of, when you all came across the Factory Station wreckage. The Ark came down, but it came down in shattered pieces. You were about to leave when there's the sound a voice. You all peered over the cliff's edge to see a girl hanging there with all her might. You agreed with Finn when he said that there wasn't time for this, but you were still on thin ice with everyone, so you stayed quiet. The boy that knew her -- you later learn that her name is Mel -- is lowered down on a bit of rope. You helped, but only because no one gave you a choice. The rope snapped and Sterling fell to his death. Mel was in hysterics.

For some reason, you all have to try again. Bellamy was lowered down next, and somehow that made it feel more dangerous. You still hated him. You still felt rage burning within you every time your gaze fell on his soft curls or caramel eyes. (Rage mixed with something more, something that made you sad. Nostalgia, if you knew the word for it). You still hated him, and yet when the make-shift rope started to strain, you held it with every muscle you could muster.

You could feel your shoulder pop out of place when you wrapped the red seat belt around your wrists, trying to gain more traction with your feet planted firmly in the dirt. You could feel your wounds re-opening, warmth spreading as blood oozed out. Your jaw tightened, but you still call out the words loud enough that Bellamy can hear them. "Don't you worry, Bellamy. I won't drop ya."

Later, you remember a poem about a red wheel barrow in one of your old schoolbooks from when you were a child and living on the Ark. It was full with easy words and you used to practice reading with it because they were easy to sound out. They didn't trick you as much as the more difficult readings. Your mother would sit and listen to your read while your father was out on the afternoon shift.

You think that maybe....
so much depends
upon

a red seat
belt

glazed with your
blood

in the grip of
your hands.

or maybe...
hanging from the pipes
in the dropship.

or even...
hanging from
a tree.