my luck is about as bad as i am.

A/N: Oh boy, this is the first thing I've written in a really, really long time. It was posted on my old wattpad, under the name "Mitch?", but since then I've deleted that account, and I've re-written the entire story, and used a different ship. Enjoy I guess?

The gun in your hand is heavy, your legs ache, and you're pretty sure the backpack on your shoulders is giving you severe back problems, but you passed the point of caring long ago. Your shirt, which used to be clean and white, is covered in the blood and gore of those you've run into, the Infected. But, luckily, most of the blood that stains your shirt is not yours. Bruises and scars litter your body, patches of purple, yellow, and white that paint a horrifying picture of the things you've been forced to go through during your journey.

You wished you could say the same for Bellamy. Half of his face has been torn off, white skull standing out harshly against his tanned and bloodstained skin, jawbone exposed to the cool night air. His chest is scratched and ripped to the point where you're not exactly sure how his guts are still staying inside him, but they somehow are. You don't know how this happened, but he must've gotten Infected after you left, after you decided you didn't need anyone, didn't want to deal with the groups dramatic bullshit. You were lying to yourself, of course. You just didn't want to get attached to a group of people that hated you. Caring was painful, and always ended horribly for you.

Part of you wonders if this is your fault, if you indirectly caused the events that led up to Bellamy getting Infected. You wonder if you could've.. saved him by staying. What if, he got Infected while he was looking for you?

You've seen a whole lot of things on this journey, things that haunt you while you sleep, make you wake up drenched in a cold sweat with tears running down your face, but this, this is a new level of terrifying. You can't get past his eyes like you can with the others. They're red, bloodshot and feral, the pupil a cloudy white. They're not the same eyes that held your own, filled with happiness and affection, maybe even a hint of love. They're dead and cold, the eyes of something rabid, hungry, and empty.

"Bellamy?" You call out, voice foreign and harsh to your own ears. It's been a long time since you've had anything to drink, and your body is heavy with dehydration.

He hisses at you, a mixture of blood and vomit dripping from his open mouth onto his chest, and begins stumbling towards you. A groan tips from his dead throat and echoes in your ears. You back away slowly, glancing at his eyes, hoping for some spark of recognition, some sort of emotion, anything to let you know Bellamy is still in there.

"It's me, Murphy. Remember?" You start again, hoping to jar him back into coherency. Your voice cracks and your vision is clouded with tears that splash colors together into a horrifying, confusing mess. You know it's completely hopeless, but you have to try. God, you have to try.

"Bellamy, c'mon, it's me!" You choke out, a sob threatening to spill from your throat. You've gone so long without food and water, and you know your doomed to die here, either by your own gun, or Bellamy's teeth.

Your feet seem rooted to the ground as he lunges at you, teeth bared and hands ready to rip into your skin. Time slows down, and it seems like it takes forever for you to finally raise your gun and put a bullet in his brain, the shot echoing down the empty city street. You stare down at him when he crumples to the ground, bleeding out for the final time under your feet. A new splatter of blood decorates your shirt.

You drop to your knees on the ground next to him, and you know it's a horrible idea to get so close to one of the Infected, but you can't just leave him like this. His eyes are still open. You gently close them and stand up, leaving your gun on the ground next to him. You can't even look at it.

You step over his body, and start walking away from him, intent on continuing your journey. But, then you turn around.

"You fucking idiot." You hiss. "Why'd you have to die, you dumbass?" You're not sure when you started crying.

"I never got to tell you I loved you, you asshole! Why'd you have to die before I could do that!?" You're yelling now, shuddering sobs wracking your body as tears flow freely down your face. You don't know if life is worth living any more. You don't know who there is to live for.

This realization terrifies you, and you take off running in the opposite direction, determined to live and continue your journey for him, because you know he'd want you to.

You die of dehydration three days later.