I Need You

She Made Me Shatter

Bellamy's POV:

Since Clarke and the rest of the gang had left, Bellamy had been replaying their short conversation. Clarke never backed down and looked at the floor, she always made eye contact. And that wasn't even mentioning the tears that glistened in her eyes. Something was very wrong, and someone was clearly hurting her. Each of them knew it, but none of them knew who. Despite knowing Clarke for most of his life, he still didn't know much about her family, and that was saying something.

He heard the doorbell ring and he curiously looked out the door, but saw no one there. Strange. But then there was a knock, and Bellamy slowly opened the door, prepared for every scenario but the one that greeted him. An almost inhuman cry left his lips and it took him a minute to realize that it was him. "Clarke," he whispered, deep voice cracking, throwing the door open further. He quickly kneeled, arms shaking so badly he was almost unable to pick the blonde up. He gathered her unconscious body carefully into his arms like she was glass, tanned skin and muscled physique a sharp contrast to her own pale skin and slender body.

He gently deposited her broken body onto his sofa, propping her bloodied head up on a cushion. She was too light, Murphy was right. Murphy was also right about the bruises. But they were all too late; none of it mattered now. He kneeled on the floor next to her, tenderly brushing a sticky strand of hair away from her face. Her skin was cold and clammy, a fact that jolted him back to the present.

Murphy. He needed Murphy. He would know what to do, right? Fumbling slightly, Bellamy whipped his phone out of his pocket, quickly dialing his number. Murphy answered within seconds, the sarcastic voice being for once a relief.

"Missed me already, Blake?"

"Clarke," he started, his normally smooth, low voice trembling. "You need to fucking get here now."

"What the fuck happened now?" In the background, he could hear the rustle of Murphy throwing on what he assumed was his leather jacket and the slam of a car door.

Though Bellamy would normally tease Murphy to no end about it, the other teens voice leaked concern behind the wall of annoyance, something he thought he would never hear. But that was saying something, if even Murphy was too worried to give a shit about what Bellamy thought.

"She's beaten unconscious, I found her on my porch." There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and then a violent slew of curse words, mirroring the conversation they had the previous day. Bellamy hung up, returning his full attention back to Clarke.

Why didn't I do anything? How could I have missed this? His mind questioned, searching for any hints he might have missed. And there were countless. The whole gang was worried, but they never acted. Earlier, her usually confident voice was quiet and meek, her eyes turned to the floor, almost like she was afraid of what Bellamy would see. And then there were all the times when Clarke returned from the bathroom, her eyes bloodshot. How O noted that her concealer was going away faster than she used it. How she didn't seem to eat as much anymore and stiffened every so slightly when someone slung their arm around her shoulders. They had all just assumed she didn't like physical contact, but it was evidently deeper than that. Clarke was afraid to be touched because she expected to be hurt. She was still the sassy, stubborn, strong-willed blonde they all knew, but it seemed more forced. Most of the time the change was imperceptible, but others, when she thought they weren't looking, her walls crashed down. What was left behind was not the Clarke they all knew.