𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, bellamy blake ¹

22; a circle of pain and blood

"Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream."

― Euripides

➳ ➳ ➳

NAOMI SCREAMED.

Some of the camp stumbled over in shock, grabbing onto their weapons. Others just stared, afraid.

She crumpled downwards, Bellamy just managing to catch her arms. Finn and Clarke moved to help her, lowering her to the ground. Naomi curled up, wailing and scratching at Bellamy's arms. "No! No! No!" She kicked out and Clarke ran her hands through Naomi's hair. She shrieked once again, warm tears sliding down her face.

Clarke had never seen her cry before. None except for Bellamy ever had. The camp whispered knowingly.

"No!"

Some of the prisoners stepped away from where they had been tending to Raven's rockets.

Naomi flailed her limbs, screaming as if in agony. "No!" Finn held her from the side. "No, no! She can't be dead! She's not! No!" Bellamy clutched at her hair, pressing her into his chest. Her hands curled in his shirt. "No," she wailed. "Please!"

Her friends hushed her. Jasper knelt to touch her back, Monty beside him.

"Please! Please!"

But no one told her that it was a mistake. Charlotte didn't come skipping down the hill with one of those stupid flower crowns she'd always wanted to make. She didn't have her hair in braids or wearing that jacket Naomi had given her for her 9th birthday. She wasn't there at all.

"No!"

And maybe Charlotte wasn't the best. Maybe she did kill Wells. Maybe, she learnt it all from Naomi. Monsters follow in the footsteps of their kin, after all. But she was her sister. And Naomi loved her.

Loved her since the day she was brought—red and screaming and so small—into this world. She loved her when she hid inside the wall with her, until she was old enough to understand why. Loved her enough to sacrifice her mind and soul when the Commander found the three playing. She loved her enough to live for her.

And somehow she was dead before her older sister. Before the one that would slit her own wrists before Charlotte would be hurt. Somehow.

And it was Murphy. Murphy. But in truth, Naomi had killed her younger sister. In her own decisions—her own story. Charlotte had become tangled in the razor wires Naomi danced in and had found death. Because it was always Naomi.

She turned from the body and there was a boy. His face was angular, and his nose just a little too sharp. He wasn't much younger than her, sickly pale and with bloodshot eyes, curled into bed. He was watching her with wide eyes. No survivors, she told herself. And she moved towards him, with the eyes of a demon. His face was slick with tears.

"No! No!"

And she grabbed the back of his neck and hauled him towards her. He moved backwards, kicked her and swung out his arm. The blade's bite was cold and cruel and then Naomi was bleeding.

And it was karma, really. That her way of killing to protect her sister was the very reason she was dead. A circle of pain and blood.

"No! No!" Naomi was the one screaming now. She dug her feet into the ground and curled her form against it. The dirt smelt fresh and cold and Charlotte would have loved it. Naomi screamed wordlessly against the people comforting her. Each of her friends tried to calm her but with no avail. Only Bellamy knew what it meant to have a sister—and only he could imagine what it would be like to lose one.