from the ashes (she will rise) ➸ octaven

chapter 1 (prologue)

the book version of this fic is published!! all the links are here

http://txrches.tumblr.com/post/146405369832/on-the-same-day-that-dakota-quinn-punches-someone

enjoy :)

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Octavia hates hospitals. She hates the bright lights, the overbearing nurses, the "rate your pain" scale, and most importantly, she hates the stupid questions that they ask over and over. She'd intended on never setting foot in one again, but this time she didn't really have a choice.

She shifts uncomfortably on the plastic bed, paper crinkling underneath her. Her hand is wrapped in a neon pink cast, a color that she didn't even pick. She scowls, extends her arm in front of her, and tries to wiggle her fingers. Wincing, she huffs and let her hands fall back to her sides. Her hand hurts like hell. She had literally felt the bones shatter upon impact.

Alright, she admits this is probably her fault, considering she was the one who blocked someone's face with her fist. But technically it's the fault of the kid who just had to make a jab at her mother. He knew exactly how to get a reaction out of her. She probably shouldn't have let him provoke her to that point, but she's pretty sure her bones weren't the only ones she felt crack. Maybe his broken nose will give him something to think about.

There's a knock in the doorway and someone pokes their head into the small room. It's not a nurse. It's a tall woman dressed in a black pant suit. Her heels click against the linoleum floor as she walks across the room to shake Octavia's hand. (Her good hand).

"Remember me?" she smiles at Octavia as if they're long lost friends. Octavia just stares back at her. The woman laughs as if she's just made the joke of the century, and takes it upon herself to sit at the end of Octavia's bed. The mattress shifts and Octavia bites her tongue.

"I'm your social worker," she explains. "I've worked with you before. After the--,"

"I remember you," Octavia mutters after realizing. This isn't really a topic she enjoys making light conversation about.

"I remember you from that night," the woman continues, oblivious to Octavia's discomfort. "Spiderman pajamas." She laughs and shakes her head. "You wouldn't let go of your brother."

Octavia keeps her eyes low.

"Anyway," the woman's voice is chipper, as if they're not sitting in a hospital room because Octavia just punched someone in the face. "The family isn't pressing charges. You got lucky this time."

"I want to see my brother."

"You will," she reassures her, flipping through a stack of papers she's brought along with her. Octavia wants to take her sacred clipboard and throw it across the room. "There's just one problem..." she pages through, tapping her nail against a pale yellow sheet. "It says here you live with your uncle in... Cape Cod?"

Octavia stiffens.

"I thought maybe it was a mistake on someone else's part so I did some research, but..." the woman's voice has lost its chipperness. "He's been dead for ten years, hasn't he, Octavia?"

Octavia's jaw clenches. She's asking her questions that she already knows the answer to. She curls her good hand into a fist and doesn't move. The woman sighs, shakes her head, and turns back to her clipboard.

"So it's just been you and your brother in that house all along, huh?" There she goes again with the questions she already knows the answers to. "Taking down the 'For Sale' signs, boarding up the windows. You guys just moved right back in after all the renovations."

"No one wants to buy it anyway," Octavia mutters. "Everyone thinks it's haunted."

"That's a criminal offense, Octavia," the woman flips the papers back over, sending a rush of air in Octavia's direction. She shivers. "Squatting in an unoccupied residence, tampering with state property... I could go on."

"Don't," Octavia huffs.

"You're a minor, Octavia."

"Bellamy isn't."

"I'm aware," the woman turns to face the girl. "But he's not your legal guardian. He could apply, but the court would turn him down the moment they find out he's not in school or working a stable job. I--,"

"He's working on getting a job," Octavia interrupts her. "He's got a buddy down in Arizona that's--,"

"I'm talking about right now, Octavia," the woman stresses her words. "With your uncle being dead, you're technically under the state's care."

"What's that mean?" Octavia lifts her head. She hadn't been sure where this conversation was going, but now she feels fear rising in her stomach.

The social worker sighs. "I don't know how you got this one past the system. And for 8 years, Octavia."

"Obviously you didn't care enough about us to check in for 8 years," Octavia quips back, shaking her head. "So now what? Fine us and send us off to live with some distant relative we've never met?"

"There's a home in California, a girl's home, they've got--,"

"What?" Octavia stands up in a panic.

"As I was saying," the woman sets her clipboard down, her eyes sending icy daggers in Octavia's direction. "There's a group home in California that's so graciously offered to take you in for the now. I know it's far away, but finding a place for a seventeen year old girl on such short notice is near impossible."

Octavia just stares at her, gaping. Who knew punching someone would get her shipped off to some hellhole in California. She racks her brain for an excuse or an escape plan but she comes up empty. All she can muster is a bitter "Fuck you," thrown in the woman's direction.

"We've packed your things for you," the social worker stands up, still full of fake professionalism. So easy to pretend I'm just another case number, Octavia thinks, clenching her jaw. "We leave for the train station in an hour."

"My brother... " Octavia takes a step forward before the woman reaches the door. Now, all her fight has drained, and she's just drowning in disbelief. "What about my brother?"

"He's over 18, he's out of the state's hands. He has the number of the home you'll be staying at. But we think it's best you two don't see each other for the time being."

"Who's we?" Octavia moves forward. "Who's making all the decisions for me? I've survived this far, shouldn't I get a say?"

"Arguing about this will get us nowhere, Octavia," the woman sighs. "We leave at 6."

Octavia opens her mouth to argue, but by then the heavy door has already slammed shut. She holds up her fist, reeling back, but thinks better of punching the wall with an already-broken hand. Instead, she stumbles a few steps and falls back onto the bed, burying her head in her hands.

All she can think of is how this was all her fault. She just had to get in a fight. If she hadn't had punched the kid, she wouldn't have been in the hospital, and they wouldn't have gone over her records. She's suddenly reminded of the same feeling of fear she was plagued with as a young girl, following her brother down the side of a highway with only a small backpack and a pair of Spiderman pajamas to her name.

She just wants to see her brother. She wants to go home. She wants to be 6 years old again, waking up from a nightmare and crawling into bed with her mother. But those are all luxuries that life has not afforded her. No, instead what little she does have is being torn out from underneath her. And she can't do a thing about it.