I Am the Reaper

Ever Changing

Okay, so if anyone is confused as to the timeframe, this is directly after Finn's death, with Lincoln in Mount Weather in Bellamy's shoes, having never undergone any Reaper transformation. So yeah. Please review! 

Someone is shredding apart my skull. Piece by piece. I'm sure before I even open my eyes I'll find bits of bone fragments lying on the floor.

 Yet when I do manage to peel back my lids, the metal floor is bare. The light slashing into the room sears straight through my eyes and into the back of my head. I hiss, but it sounds more like a pained gurgle. My mouth is like cracked dirt, limbs like stone. The red curtain seems more brilliant today, making the room a burning glaze of crimson wall and crimson floor. I try to blink it duller, but it doesn't change. The ache in my head has grown to a galvanizing pound that ricochets from temple to temple, so strong it makes my eyes water. 

I need the Red. I need it more than water and the air in my lungs. Need it more than the other red in my veins. But my arm isn't free anymore. The steel is stronger than me and even though I pull and tug and shriek at the bindings, they refuse to let me go. The only thing that breaks is my skin, over and over, deeper and deeper, reopening day-old wounds. The pain is dull in comparison to the crescendo in my head.

"It's almost out of your system," comes a familiarly unfamiliar voice and again appears the sunshine girl, breaking through the thick clouds of shadow. But there's something off about her today. Something distinctly breakable. 

Maybe it's the way her voice rasps and cracks, no longer made of steel. 

Maybe it's the bruising that lines her neck I can glimpse through the shifting material of her shirt. 

Maybe it's the detached look in her red eyes, that tells me she is looking at a Reaper, and not at a friend.

My response is a low growl. 

She ignores me, instead coming forward with a silver jar of sorts. She stops just before me.  When her right sleeve retracts, I see a bracelet of bruises there, too. "Right now your body is going through withdrawal," she says, and I distantly wonder why she's telling this to me. Why she thinks it matters. "Headaches," she continues, "disorientation, they're the most common adverse reactions. It should be another day before we notice any change."

Three days, the suited mans words ring back to me from the knife if memory, it hurts to recall. To think. To refrain from sowing the metal shackles through my wrists. 

"It's important you stay hydrated," she continues, oblivious to the cacophony of pain in my head. Or maybe she's not, and instead wants me to feel it.

She raises the metal jar and steps toward me, cautious, yet not afraid enough to stop.

But water is no substitute for the Red, and if I can't have the latter, I'm better off left for dead.

"Bellamy," she says. Demanding. I turn my head away from her, ignoring the onslaught of pain  that comes with the action, burning holes into the wall at my side. 

A sigh escapes her. "Bellamy, if you don't drink anything you could go into hypovolemic shock," she continues, but I have the feeling her words are for her alone.  Perhaps my death will bring her pain. I wonder just how much I want it to.

She inhales a shaky breath, and it's like I can hear her iron will eroding and crumbling away. She is not as strong as the others have been led to believe.

I glance back to her long enough to watch as she shuts her eyes. Her lashes cast their sharp silhouettes down her cheeks, making it look like the sunshine girl is crying shadows.