infamous

47 - the burnt

"lose the handcuffs" president wallace says to the guards, who undo the metal restraints and walk a few steps back.

his office contains a desk, a chair behind it and ornaments everywhere. an old sword, a globe, paintings all over the walls and other preserved things.

he faces away from me, staring at the huge painting behind his desk, taking up most of the rear wall.

i realise that he isnt staring at the painting, he's painting it.

the forest outside, perhaps from within the trees. the dark painting tells me he's talented, but just as naive as i was from my days on the arc, expecting the ground to be full of lookouts, peering over the trees and seeing the gorgeous lakes. instead, all i saw were trees.

it kind of looks like the outside, but not an exact representation.

"i used to draw the ground too" i say to him, as he barely acknowledges my existence.

"its not just the ground, its a memory" he replies.

"you've been outside?"

"yes. 56 years ago" he replies, in the same low register, almost as if he's putting little effort in.

"for 5 minutes. i was 7 when what we call "the outsiders" appeared. before that, we thought we were all that was left. imagine our surprise" he says.

"i dont have to imagine" i say, the flashing memory of those terrible hours of jasper being speared and mackinnon getting chopped up in a bid to save us all.

"my father, who's office this was, thought that the earth was survivable again. he opened the doors, and within a week, 54 people were dead from the exposure" he says, pausing, from his speaking and finally, his painting.

"my mother and sister among them" he adds.

he places the brush and the paint palette down on the small, high bench, only a piece of paper large, but tall enough for him to use as he paints.

he turns and faces me, wiping his hands with a cloth.

"loss. pain, regret. time eases these things clarke, but the only time they stop, is when im painting" he says, walking around his desk and placing the cloth on the table which holds the sword on its stand.

"you didnt bring me here to talk about painting" i say, fed up with this speech.

"i brought you here to tell you that our patrols found no evidence of survivors, from your camp and the arc" he says, not sitting as i though he would, but standing to face me.

"how can they be sure?" i ask.

"they cant"

"im sorry, i need to see for myself-"

"im sorry too clarke, i cant allow that. for your own safety, its dangerous out there"

"radiation has no effect on us" i spit back.

"its not the radiation im concerned about clarke. you need time to grieve. your friend is in a coma, the rest of them are scared for you. these men will show you to your room"

"and if i try to leave?" i ask, as his face shifts to a sadness.

"please dont test me clarke" he threatens, but in an almost nice way.

i turn and walk out of the room, the 2 men following me.

mackinnon needs to wake up, then we can bust our way out of here. he knows more than me about being trapped somewhere and wanting to kill everyone.