Survivors

Chapter 5- Masterpeice

Clarke Griffen:

I wake, breathing in the smell of smoke. When I open my eyes, I see that I'm in one of the tents that Bellamy ordered to be made. I sit up as a groan escapes my mouth. I have forgotten about the fresh whiplashes on my legs that were soaked in saltwater. I slowly uncover my body from the blanket and peel my pant-legs up. The wounds have stuck to the pants so I have to tare the pant-legs up, only opening the whiplashes. Pain prickles my legs and bloods starts running down my legs yet again.

"Princess?" Bellamy sticks his head in the tent. He looks down at my legs, than at my face again. He walks over and sits next to me. "How are you feeling?" He asks softly. Honestly, I don't really know. I'm in pain because of the fresh wounds, I feel secure knowing that I've got Bellamy to look out for me, I'm worried that my escape may have caused a war between us and the grounders, and yet I'm stressed because of all of these emotions going through my head. I sigh and look into his dark brown eyes. I have never noticed the freckles that spot all over his face.

"I feel like drawing." I said without thinking, but it's true. I love to lose myself in art. He nods and leaves the tent without saying a word. How could that have put him in an awkward position? I just spoke what was on my mind...

"Will these do?" He walks back in holding a pencil that was snapped in half and the back of a map that was in the ark. A wide smile covers my face as I take the objects in my hand and observe them.

"These will do just fine! Thanks." I slowly start sketching, letting my mind wonder, not caring about anyone or anything else but my artwork.

Bellamy Blake:

I stare at her face. She's so concentrated and lost in her task, that she doesn't notice me. Her sharp blue eyes follow every stroke of her pencil. A blond curl hangs loose in front of her ear. Without questioning myself, I tuck it back behind her soft ear. This shakes her into reality and she slowly turns to look at me. I regret it now. I get up to leave the tent, but I feel her hand grasp my wrist.

"Don't leave." She says blushing. I smirk and sit back down. She looks back at her sketch and starts drawing again. That was when I noticed the price of artwork. It was a hand holding another hand. Both were different shades; one was darker than the other. I don't know what it meant, but it looked so real like I could touch it. "It symbolizes teamwork, courage and faith." she says but keeps working as she talks. "My father taught me how to draw."

"I never knew my father." I say plainly. "I wish that I had though." Clarke looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. That's all I have ever received, sympathy. Sympathy for not knowing my father. Sympathy for my sister being locked up. Sympathy for my mother being floated. I was sick of it. I got up and walked out of the tent. Clarke's artwork reminded me of where I got my courage and faith. I got it from my father. I hated Clarke's artwork, but it was beautiful. It was a masterpiece.