𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄, b. blake ₂

𝟎𝟏; the beginning

The beginning [after the end];

          𝐓he lake reflects in her eyes.

Pale skin is littered with thick cuts. There's blood; both stiff and soaking. A gash is clinging to her left cheek, going all the way from her eyebrow down to her nose.

The feature is barely noticeable. The thick, red substance coats her nose, almost like a protective layer in case more blows are to come. It's slightly crooked too, but not broken. Hopefully not broken.

Lips are forced to be parted. The lower part is horribly swollen, creating an additional weight on her sore face. Parts of her teeth are still covered in red. Dry blood trails from her mouth, falling down her chin. Like a piece of depressing art; perfectly painted and well-dried.

Not until the wind grabs her blonde locks does she recognize the numbness. As the hair strands gently brush her skin, she finds herself barely noticing. Like the layer of skin has been drained of any nerves.

Her right leg is stretched out next to her, nearly stirring the water. Green eyes travel from her own reflection, landing on the sight of her injury.

If it wasn't for the displayed wooden handle, she would barely know a dagger is resting inside her thigh. Her whole leg is numb as well, but she's still able to use it. Partly.

Her jacket is clinging to her upper body, providing her with some warmth. She had to rip off a part of her blood-soaked tank top. That piece of fabric is now tightly wrapped around the dagger.

Another cloth is tightly wrapped around her leg, just above the wound. Yet another measure to prevent blood loss.

Clove exhales deeply. Green eyes flutter shut. An inhalation sounds. Then, another long exhalation.

The sun has just emerged in the sky, chasing away the frightful darkness, and the stinging cold with it.

There have been no signs of other survivors, but she has yet to go back to the dropship.

Her heart clenches at the thought, the faces of the ones she cares for possessing her mind. Red, blistering, coated in ashes.

Dead.

She clenches her jaw, not allowing the awfully familiar lump to build up in her throat. The thought of Bellamy and Finn's helplessness haunts her. She left them, for death to carry them on.

An angry groan rumbles in her throat. Her hand reaches for a rock, brutally hurling it into the water. The following, sullen spatter could resemble her frustration. She feels like tearing something into a million unrecognizable pieces.

Another sound of desperation fills the air, followed by the sound of yet another hurled stone.

She assumes that those who made it through the war are still by the dropship, waiting for other survivors to return. If there even are any. Who says that the dropship was to keep them safe? It might've been just another false hope.