From the Ashes

12

"'The weak can never
Forgive.
Forgiveness is the attribute
Of the
Strong.'"

- Mahatma Gandhi

_____

Bear awoke to the feeling of comfort, her eyes dancing around her environment, she found herself to be inside a tent. Sitting up, she felt the fabric of two blankets between her fingers, as the makeshift bed beneath her creaked through its strenuous wires.

Pulling the covers back, her feet pulling out from the covers, she realised the jacket that hung on her small frame. It was a thick, black jacket that seemed to be two sizes too big for her. She liked that though, it hid who she was, as her little dress over the years became torn and rugged. A dress made for a fourteen year old girl worn by a eighteen year old girl would cause some discomfort.

Across the room was where her metal rod was slumped against the table, she was confused as to how it was there, didn't she leave it with Lincoln?

She picked it up, and felt how the metal of this one was different from the one she had made. It was less rough to the touch, as it felt almost weightless.

Standing up, she slowly made her way outside into the darkness. Her eyesight was hazy from the thought of sleep, as she must've slept a whole day. She never slept that long, never.

Well, never as in, when her sister wasn't by her side, never.

Making her way quietly to the dropship, she pulled the curtain aside. Looking back, she noticed the pigment of the tent she had been in. It was a musky, yellow hue.

The same fabric of Bellamy's tent.

As her stomach churned, she relished to be inside the dropship. Away from everybody, on the second level where she had made her home for when she wanted to be alone.

Instead, she was welcomed by Murphy's bloodied, stumped form against the ladder with two of the boys from camp standing by him with guns.

That was the moment Bear sobered up from her tranquility of too much sleep.

Rushing forward, she grasped Murphy's face, sending a deadly gaze to the boys who dared touch her,"pull me off of him, I dare you!"

Recoiling her attention back to Murphy, she ripped off some of her skirt. Snatching a water bottle seated nearby, she used it to wash the poor boys face.

Cupping one of his cheeks, she softly grazed his lips with the wet fabric. His eyes pulled back, miraculously, through the thick layer of blood that must've left him half blind.

His hand that was dripping with blood, reached forward, as it slowly brushed a dreadlock strand behind her ear. It had fallen out of place.

"Bear..." his voice called, it sounded like nails against a chalk board,"is tha... that... you?"

Using the hand that was cupping his face, she turned it slightly, and pressed the water bottle to his sore lips,"Hello John," she smiled,"could you please drink for me."

Parting his lips, he did as the girl said, he always used to do what she said. When you think you love someone, when you feel you love someone, you tend to follower their every word without a hesitation or a moment to think.