❝ Hell isn't where you go when you die.
It's what you become when everything you love has been taken away. ❞
[ sequel to 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 ]
[ the 100 / season two ]
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Treason;
𝐖eakness.
The lack of physical strength. The feeling that further effort is required to move a single muscle. Gravity growing ivies around one's body, creeping around each limb like a second layer of skin.
Unescapable.
Weakness.
The lack of mental strength. The veins have slithered through the layers of skin. Itched its way through the solidness of one's scalp. Hugging their brain like a second cranium.
Restricting.
Clove used to view herself as weak. She could find weaknesses in every move. Every decision.
The short blonde was never a fighter. She would easily pick her mother's books before most opportunities. Creep under the welcoming sheets on her bed, buried in the tale of the pages.
Eyebrows furrowing at the characters' thoughtless decisions. Tears escaping when one's death hit so suddenly- she could nearly hear her own heart shatter. The grin on her lips when one would survive a downfall. Easily followed by the betrayal when one turned against their own.
The books had it all, yet she knew little to nothing of how to handle reality.
The ground taught her how to survive. The people - her friends. They all taught her how to handle unfair situations. What to do when she felt like giving up. How to get through that seemingly endless trail of pain.
Strength.
Clove feels strong.
She feels strong- despite being hidden from the world that taught her what she now knows.
Even when thrown into this empty cell, with nothing but her own company to cherish. No emotion was displayed. Still isn't. Not even the slightest hint of displeasure. Fear.
Fear.
Clove is scared. She's incredibly scared- fearing for her own life.
But she's been scared before. Felt the adrenaline of fear. The panic of not knowing if she will make it out alive. If her friends will make it out breathing. She has been forced to deal with this emotion several times. But revealing her worry won't ease the situation.
So, there she sits. Back against the cement, one leg chained to the wall. The metal has trapped her ankle and robbed her of her freedom.
Her stomach grumbles, echoing round and round the chamber walls until it fades into nothing. In an effort to stop the pain, she touches her stomach only to feel the current feeling of her bones. Crushed under her tight skin.
Time is irrelevant when locked away in a cell. Yet, she understands that several hours- if not days- have passed. Days without nutrition and the sweet relief of water.
