( her voice is empty the way a dead thing might be. there's no sympathy laced in her words, no emotion etched into the syllables, no catch in her breath. it isn't that she's closing off, that she's shutting down, it's that there is so much that she doesn't know what to do with it all.
the guilt is a heavy pressure, a growing burden, and she's sure that her knees will buckle beneath her before she can manage to shoulder it and keep going. it's Finn killing a village, it's her killing Finn, it's everyone blaming her for her choices in that, it's having sent Bellamy to Mount Weather, and now it's this. the experimentation, the torture, that they hung him for his blood. she feels so responsible, feels so guilty, and it compresses her chest until she can't breathe, as though she can't get enough air despite how many breaths she might take.
and the house feels too small, and Bellamy too close, and the noises of people outside too loud, and there is so much guilt-
Bellamy's head is on her shoulder and Clarke's reaching up before she thinks better of it, cards her fingers through his hair as her free hand lifts, shaking, to whisk the tears from her face. she doesn't know when they started falling, can't even remember now, but of course she is. of course she's crying, because does she know how to do anything else when the guilt presses down on her? will she ever know how to do anything else in response to it?
I was being weak. I was being weak. I was being weak. I was being weak.
she can't swallow back the raw sob that claws its way up her throat, can't remember how to breathe around it, and god, she wonders if this is what drowning feels like.
she's being weak and she doesn't know how to stop. )
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( her voice is empty the way a dead thing might be. there's no sympathy laced in her words, no emotion etched into the syllables, no catch in her breath. it isn't that she's closing off, that she's shutting down, it's that there is so much that she doesn't know what to do with it all.
the guilt is a heavy pressure, a growing burden, and she's sure that her knees will buckle beneath her before she can manage to shoulder it and keep going. it's Finn killing a village, it's her killing Finn, it's everyone blaming her for her choices in that, it's having sent Bellamy to Mount Weather, and now it's this. the experimentation, the torture, that they hung him for his blood. she feels so responsible, feels so guilty, and it compresses her chest until she can't breathe, as though she can't get enough air despite how many breaths she might take.
and the house feels too small, and Bellamy too close, and the noises of people outside too loud, and there is so much guilt-
Bellamy's head is on her shoulder and Clarke's reaching up before she thinks better of it, cards her fingers through his hair as her free hand lifts, shaking, to whisk the tears from her face. she doesn't know when they started falling, can't even remember now, but of course she is. of course she's crying, because does she know how to do anything else when the guilt presses down on her? will she ever know how to do anything else in response to it?
I was being weak. I was being weak. I was being weak. I was being weak.
she can't swallow back the raw sob that claws its way up her throat, can't remember how to breathe around it, and god, she wonders if this is what drowning feels like.
she's being weak and she doesn't know how to stop. )