Chapter 2
Days pass and it’s like your existence without Clarke is just slowly fading away into oblivion. You never even noticed how much she meant to you until you stopped hanging out, quite abruptly to be honest. You know that something terrible happened, but you don’t know what exactly. You lie in bed and think about how there was something about Clarke that captivated you beyond mere interest. Every day, every second from that time when you first saw her. You think that it was the way she laughed, her laugh so infectious, that it would make you smile even when you’d pretend you’re seriously contemplating your notes or the professor’s lecture (your mind in fact blank to everything but her cheeks flushing). You think it was the way the whole room would illuminate when she smiled, a smile so intense that you had to close your eyes for a bit. Occasionally, you would just stare at her and think “Why her?”, but when she turned to you and smile that smile of hers, your questions were immediately wiped out of your memory until the end of time. Clarke had many great qualities – she was attentive, a great listener, she was smart, funny. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was easygoing. But underneath all that laid back attitude, there was a certain seriousness to her. One of the many other amazing qualities she had was that she could make you forget. She made you forget to think too much, and it was so calming and so good to stop thinking at least once in a while. It’s the ability to heal that you found so soothing and comforting, so warm and raw You find her soothing nature comforting, so warm and raw.. The way you could feel your wounds lessen, the blood stop dripping. And you’re grateful. That’s why you’re so drawn to her, like a moth to a candle flame. But now you slam your fist into a wall, not even wincing from the ache. Damn it. You don’t want to have feelings. You can’t. Not after what happened with… You lie in bed, in the darkness of the night, and think how you can’t take it anymore; you need to talk to her. All of the nonsense with your feelings aside, she is still your friend and you care about her. A lot. So you groan as you throw off the covers and get out of bed, dressing blindly in jeans and an oversized red hoodie. You don’t care how it’s almost midnight, you open the door and march into the dimly lit hall, soft carpet under your feet. Oh God, what if her roommate is in the room? What if they’re asleep? What if Clarke won’t want to see you? No, don’t back out. You never back out. That’s just who you are.
“Clarke?” You knock on the wooden door and pray that she’s not sleeping, that it will be her to open the damn door. “Clarke, please open up.”
You stand in the silence of the hall. The silence stillness is so thick you can almost hear your blood running through your veins. Years fly by in your mind, days turning into weeks, turning into months. Your heart is beating like crazy and you don’t even know if it’s better if she opens the door or if she doesn’t. But no, you’re not a coward, you’re not a coward, you’re not a…
“Lexa?” Clarke’s in her sleeping shorts and a black tank top, voice hoarse, eyes wide open and surprised. It looks as if she was getting ready to go to bed. You listen intently and you don’t hear anyone else shuffling in the room, nor do you hear another voice. She’s is probably alone. You hope so at least.
“I’m sorry if this is too forward of me or whatever, I don’t really care. But I care about you, Clarke. What happened?” You’re afraid. You’re afraid that she’ll say she’s upset over something you’ve done, something you’ve said. Or even worse – that she’s upset over something you won’t be able to fix. You’re terrified that you won’t be able to make it better, to make her hurt less.
“Come in,” Clarke says staring at the ground, opening the door more and gesturing for you to slip in. “Sit down,” she points to the bed on the right. The other bed looks as if no one has slept in it for at least a couple of days.
“My roommate works in a bar near campus. Night shifts,” she says as she sits down too, noticing your staring at the empty and cold bed.
“I’m sorry I barged in in the middle of the night,” you become really self-conscious, looking at anything, just not at Clarke sitting on the bed near you. You’re doing your best to avoid her long and bare legs.
“It’s fine, Lexa,” Clarke’s voice is tired. “I’m sorry, I have been a bit antisocial but I’m having serious family problems,” she says dryly and avoids your gaze for a bit.
“Oh,” is all you manage. Family. Family is judgmental, arrogant, hypocritical. The word leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth. It’s a word that will always make you shiver, your spine tense and your jaw clenched. “It’s ok if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t pry. I just wanted to say that I’m always here if you want to talk or anything.”
You’re both silent and you just stare at your hands in your lap. You have no idea what to do. Do you go? Or stay? Say something or stay silent?
“My dad has cancer,” Clarke breaks the heavy silence in a deadpan, cold voice and you can’t help but finally look at her face. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes more evident than before, eyes sleepy, skin paler than usual. “It’s quite ironic when my mom’s a doctor,” Clarke lets out a short bitter laugh.
You’re taken aback. You don’t know what to say, how to say it. You don’t know how to comfort her, make her feel better. It’s the second one, isn’t it? You not being able to fix it. How good of a friend are you?
“I’m sorry,” you hear your voice crack. “I’m so sorry,” you look at Clarke, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“He still has a pretty good chance though, it’s not that bad. But I’m… I’m devastated. It’s like I can’t function anymore. It’s like I don’t understand, but understand too well at the same time, you know?” Your hands fiddle in your lap and then you feel Clarke putting her warm hand on your cold one. “I’m sorry for shutting you out; I needed some time for myself. I’m not good at dealing with this kind of stuff.”
“We rarely are. I’m sorry I can’t even do anything to make you feel better,” your voice is raw and sad.
“Lexa,” Clarke says strictly as she pulls your hand towards herself. “You’re here with me, you care. I appreciate it. I really do. Can you-, can you please just stay with me for a bit? I really need it,” she pulls you into a hug and you don’t even fight it, you let her.
“It’s ok, Clarke,” you say as she buries her face in your neck. Her hands soon find your waist, her fingers settle on the skin where your hoodie has risen up, your breath hitches involuntarily. Your arms find their way around her neck. “It’s gonna be ok.”
You don’t believe it yourself.
*****
Your phone rings and the sound wakes you up immediately. You’re so disoriented that you don’t even understand what’s going on. What time is it? Who’s calling you? Maybe it’s Clarke? It’s been a week since your talk with her and everything seems normal. For now. You two talk, hang out, walk back to the dorms together after copyright law, have lunch with Raven and Octavia just like before. As if nothing happened. Though you do feel this subtle sadness in Clarke’s every move, a certain helplessness. It’s only natural for her to feel this way. It’s just your heart seems to ache whenever you notice it. The ringtone snaps you back to reality. What the hell? You glance at a clock on the wall - 8: 34 AM. It’s still early in the morning, why would anyone be calling at such an hour? You reach out for the phone on the nightstand, not even looking at who is calling. Your mistake. You realize it the moment you hear the voice on the other side of the line.
“Good morning, Lexa,” your dad’s voice echoes in your ears and your mouth flies agape for a second. “You aren’t sleeping, are you? It’s quite late in the morning.”
“Good morning, father,” you try to calm down before he hears a quiver in your voice. “I studied late last night and my lectures start at 11, so I decided to get a decent amount of sleep,” there is silence. Even if you think it is fine, you really know it isn’t. It never is.
“That doesn’t mean you can sleep until the middle of the day,” his voice is harsh, accusing. You never miss it. You never miss these phone calls. “You always procrastinate.”
“I don’t, I had a lot of homework recently,” you have no idea why he’s calling. You never understand why he does that.
“Good then,” your dad’s voice gets calmer. “Do you like your studies?” He asks.
“I do,” you answer. You really do, you’ve been interested in politics ever since you were little. Your parents were proud of you when you told them you want to study international politics. And you were happy to move away from them. It’s not that you don’t love them; it’s that they are abusive without even noticing it, and it’s been draining you ever since you were a child.
“I am glad to hear that. You will have a great career after your studies, won’t you?” Your dad asks, and it feels like a threat more than an actual rhetorical question. He succeeds in making you feel uneasy, he always does, even when you’re trying to block everything he says and take it for what it is.
“I will. Most definitely,” you answer in a monotone.
“Your mother wants to talk to you,” he says and gives the phone to your mom. Your mom is even worse; you think that she sometimes thrives on the abusive words, like it’s her only outlet, her only chance to talk without thinking.
“Lexa,” you hear her voice and swallow hard. “Do I need to remind you that…”
You should have gotten used to it, this abuse. But you realize, that when it comes to family – you can never get used to the mistreatment you’re receiving. And so you try your hardest to not throw the phone at a wall. You listen intently, each word piercing your heart deeper and deeper. You should have gotten used to it (you never did). When the call ends, the clock shows 9:41 AM. You just roll over onto your back and stare at the white ceiling. What a great start. Sometimes you want to shatter into pieces, but you know that no one is going to put you back together. You feel absolutely and utterly alone on days like these. Like you’re in some kind of a bubble, like there’s a wall of glass between you and other people, like you’re invisible. Sometimes, you think that burdens like yours can’t be understood by a mere mind (however pretentious that may sound). How many times have you been broken? Sad? Been rendered completely useless? Had your friends turn away from you? Had to stand your family’s abuse? How many times have you slit your wrists? Fell apart? Were left all alone? How many times had your fist crashed into a wall? How many times have you stared blankly at your own reflection in the mirror and screamed in despair? Too many, too many times.
And sometimes, on days like these, you feel like you don’t belong.
*****
There are days when you think everything is crumbling away at your fingers. Because as humans, we ruin everything we touch, including other people. That’s why you sometimes ignore Clarke physically; you avoid any contact with her, her skin. You don’t want to ruin her with your tainted touch, your dirty hands, so you carefully push her away when she tries to comfort you or hug you. You haven’t told her about your family (among many other things), but you think she understands that there is something very wrong, a deep secret you’re trying to keep. For now, she doesn’t push it. You try to prolong this for as long as you can; you don’t want to lie your burdens upon her shoulders. Both of you are broken for different reasons, by different experiences, but you understand each other well. Most of the time, she gets you when there are no words spoken, when there’s dead silence. You like how the both of you can just be listening to music in your dorm room, you reading and Clarke drawing, the silence is never uncomfortable. You figure that you’re just no good with words. It’s like deep down you know how you feel, but when you try and find the right words – there are none. So you just assume she understands even though it’s very selfish of you.
You know she does.
*****
It’s Friday. Another phone call from your dad sends you into a spiraling depression once again. He said he hasn’t seen you in quite some time and wants you to get back home for the weekend. Which you protested, and of course, all hell broke loose. Again, the phone call happened in the morning. It’s afternoon now, and you are drinking coffee with Clarke at the coffee shop near campus. Still, you can’t seem to concentrate, all the words from the call still ringing in your ears.
“Lexa?” Clarke tries. “Are you listening? You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
Everything. Everything is wrong and you can’t breathe anymore.
“Do you ever think about the end of the world, Clarke?” Clarke looks at you dumbfounded. “Do you ever think about how fucked up everything is?” Your brain betrays you, spilling words that should have better been unrevealed, unspoken, buried and forgotten. Because they’re painful and uncontrollable, to the point of wanting to drown. But Clarke just looks at you as if there’s something very wrong with you, like you’re broken. You’re not, you’re not broken. You don’t need to be fixed. You’re fine, you’re fine…
“Lexa, what’s wrong?” Clarke pleads. “Please, tell me,” she begs, and you think how it would be unnecessary to burden her. But how it would be easier for you, to finally let go, to finally put all the pieces of the puzzle for her. No, not right now. Maybe not ever.
You’re not sure why you’re playing this game with Clarke. She is sincere and seems to really care about you. Maybe that’s what’s stopping you. You don’t want to worry her, scare her away. Your friendship is still somewhat fragile. No, drowning is the problem of the person who’s drowning. Nothing more.
“I’m fine, Clarke,” you take a sip of the gone cold coffee and manage a small smile. “I’m just tired.”
Clarke’s back hits the chair, her eyes never leaving your face, and you just put up a mask. A defense mechanism. You always work on it your free time. It’s like sharpening pencils; you never know when you’ll need to use it.
In your head, you still think about how fucked up everything is.
*****
You don’t know for how long you’ve been like this. What time is it? It’s dark already? You stand up from the desk you’ve been sitting at for who knows how long. After spending your afternoon with Clarke, you’ve returned to your dorm. An image of Clarke’s smile floats into your mind. You’ve only ever embraced her once, and god, now you can’t think of any other action you’d want to repeat as many times as that embrace. Whenever you accidentally even graze her skin, electricity surges through your fingertips and you think you’ve never felt this way before. You seem to notice when she’s hurting, even though she’s concealing it well. But the mask crumbles, maybe she wants it to crumble sometimes, you don’t know, though other people do not seem to notice. Sometimes, she’s way too quiet for her usual loud and energetic self, but you don’t say anything. She will talk when she wants to; you don’t want to force her. You just put on a knowing face and continue doing what you’re doing. Your door is always open. Sometimes you hate it. The way there’s nothing you can do, the way you don’t know what to do, the way you’re so uncertain about everything. The image of Clarke is replaced by your father, shaking his head in disapproval, his hurtful words still echoing in your head. You thought things brightened up, you thought everything was going to get better, you thought… You roll up your sleeves and stare at the pink scars. You realize you truly are broken. Tears start streaming down your cheeks and you clutch your scarred forearm. You fall to the floor and cry until you fall asleep on the cold ground.
*****
The razor kisses your skin and your skin cries in blood. Saturday morning. Or is it Sunday already? You have no idea. You don’t really like weekends, there’s too much time to think, even if you try to be busy, to get stuff done, you still find your mind wandering. You stare at the new scar which is probably the deepest you’ve made and sigh. The blood continues to drip down the white sink and you put away the razor. You think about the end of the world again, but there’s a knock on the door and it startles you. Who can that be?
“Lexa?” It’s Clarke. Oh god, oh god… You grab a cloth and wipe the blood from your forearm, rolling down your sweater’s sleeves to cover the new scar. She can’t know, she just can’t.
“Yeah, just a minute, Clarke,” you say as you leave the bathroom and go to open the door, taking a deep breath.
Clarke is dressed in black skinny jeans and a loose white shirt, her hair in a ponytail. She looks tired, but her smile indicates that she probably spent the whole night drawing again. Also, there’s a little smudge of paint on her neck. Clarke always had this small smile when she’d stay up late and draw or paint. She has shown you a couple of her creations, all done beautifully. Clarke loved bright colors in her paintings and black and white in her sketches. She’d sketch numerous things and then would make a proper painting, incorporating everything so that it made sense and looked otherworldly. She’s brilliant.
“I brought breakfast,” Clarke waves a small brown bag as she takes a step forward and hugs you with her free hand.
“Uh, thank you,” you stutter as you try to remember the last time you ate. Yesterday? Today?
“It’s no big deal, just coffee and sandwiches,” Clarke shrugs as she sits down in front of the small table. “You know, I am jealous of your room,” she says while taking out the sandwiches and the coffee from the bag.
“Really? Why?” You grab a few napkins from the cupboard and sit down as well.
“One, cause you live alone,” Clarke takes a sip of the coffee. “And two, instead of a second bed, you have a proper table with chairs. I always have to eat in front of my computer desk and the crumbles just get everywhere. So yes, I do love this table, even though it is round and not that big,” Clarke chews on her favorite sandwich, occasionally taking a sip of the warm liquid.
“True. I like that I have a proper dining table as well,” you smile as you take a bite of your sandwich.
“Also, your bed is way bigger than mine,” Clarke takes a napkin to her lips to wipe the sauce off. “I’m not even kidding when I say that I fell off the bed a few times,” she laughs and then stops dead in her tracks, putting her cup down on the table. “Lexa?” Clarke’s voice is weird and you don’t understand the sudden change in her tone.
“Yes?” You look at her dumbfounded, not quite understanding what’s wrong.
“Your, your hand, Lexa,” she says staring at your wrist. “There’s blood.”
You jump up and stare at your wrist, the blood almost dripping on the rug, but you grab a few napkins and let it absorb the crimson liquid. Clarke jumps up as well and stares at you.
“Lexa,” you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Let me see,” she comes at you and carefully takes your fingers. And you are so tired of fighting, and so tired of losing, that you let her carefully roll up the sleeve of your black sweater. Clarke gasps and you feel as if the whole room is sucked out of oxygen. She lets go for a second and you open your eyes in panic. But it seems that Clarke just went to the bathroom to get a towel.
“It’s ok, Lexa,” she wraps your forearm in a wet towel and looks at you while you avoid her gaze. “It’s ok.”
Clarke is calm, very calm. You thought she’d yell at you, walk out on you, shout “What kind of nonsense is this?” and leave. But she just calmly wipes the blood and lets it dry, then washes the bloody towel while you sit at the table, staring at your unfinished sandwich. Clarke returns from the bathroom and adjusts the chair to sit closer to you. You sit in silence for a few minutes.
“I am sad, but I won’t pry. I don’t think I have the right to,” she says carefully taking your scarred hand into hers and you just look away. “But I want you to know that I care about you deeply and it hurts me to know that you’re in pain,” she brings your hand to her lips and kisses near your wrist, where the fresh scar resides. You feel like you’ll faint any minute and your heart will jump out of your chest.
“Clarke,” you cough a bit to clear your voice. “I, I’m… I’m sorry,” you say lamely.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Clarke smiles a little bit and you feel as if you’re drowning. “But please finish your meal, you look as if you haven’t eaten anything in a while,” you gasp a bit at how easily Clarke reads you.
You eat your sandwich while Clarke finishes her coffee, shooting you a worried look once in a while. There is a small light in the darkness after all.
*****
You spend almost every day together with Clarke after your lectures and you start feeling better, calmer even. Sometimes, you grab take-out and go to Raven and Octavia’s room. Raven still calls everyone in her engineering class an idiot, Octavia still eats too fast and they both hate on their physics lecturer together. Though most of the time, the four of you just laugh until you can’t breathe and you think how grateful you are for these people.
Clarke starts visiting you even more. At first, Clarke used to say that she wanted to see you, or that her roommate was studying and she didn’t want to disturb her. But now she just knocks on your door and nods slightly when you open up. You know she’s worried, but you don’t know how to feel about it, it’s kind of bittersweet. You like spending time with Clarke, you really do, but you don’t want her to feel like this is her duty because it isn’t. You don’t want her to think that she’s in any way responsible for your self-destructive tendencies.
On a Friday night, you both watch a movie on your laptop in your bed. It’s a serious drama and both of you are invested, never talking throughout the movie, but occasionally pausing it and discussing it, drinking soda or grabbing another slice of pizza. Clarke’s in her sleeping shorts and a black tank top, while you’re in loose pajama pants and a white T-shirt. The first thing that Clarke said when you opened the door was “You have a tattoo?” as she stared at your bicep in awe. Having your forearms exposed was painful, and even awkward, at first. But Clarke told you that it’s fine while occasionally staring at the tattoo, shifting her eyes to your scars.
“Do you have any other tattoos?” She asks while pausing the movie and reaching out for the pizza in the box, taking another slice. You realize that Clarke loves pizza and you don’t blame her. You’ve always said that pizza was one of the best things in life. When Clarke heard this, she just couldn’t help but agree with enthusiasm.
“I do. One more, I have it on my back,” you answer. “Do you have any?” You’re curious.
“Yeah, but only one though,” she says taking a napkin and wiping her hands.
“Clarke,” you say looking at her. “You don’t need to keep tabs on me, I am not a child,” You exhale.
“Is this what you think it is?” Clarke grabs a soda can from the nightstand, takes a gulp and puts it back down again. “I’m not keeping tabs, even though I’m worried. But this is not what it’s about – I just really love spending time with you,” she says like it’s no big deal, but your stomach flutters and feels funny for quite a time, but you try to ignore the feeling, shoo it away.
“You do?” You ask as Clarke gives you an annoyed look.
“I’m not the kind of person to spend time with someone I don’t like, Lexa,” she says casually. “Shall we get on with the movie? I’m interested in what happens next,” her hand hovers over the laptop.
“Of course,” you say as Clarke shifts. You pretend that you don’t notice how your shoulders brush together.
*****
You wake up in the middle of the night, confused. It’s so dark that you can barely see anything; even the dim light of the moon doesn’t help you. Someone stirs besides you, there is a soft tug on your shirt and you realize that both you and Clarke have probably fallen asleep in the bed. Was it after the movie ended? You try to remember the ending in vain. Your head is heavy and you’ve had quite a difficult week, no wonder you fell asleep.
“Clarke?” You whisper as you partially get up, resting on your elbows, still disoriented. There’s dead silence and you think that maybe you’ve imagined it, hallucinated it.
“Shhh, just go back to sleep Lexa,” you hear her groggy voice and you lay back down. Clarke immediately moves closer and lays her head on your shoulder; her hand finds its way on your waist. Clarke is breathing into your neck and it tickles a bit. You find the weight of her body relaxing, her breath soothing. You carefully embrace her, and Clarke just nuzzles into your neck, which draws a laugh from your lips.
“It tickles,” you’re sleepy, eyes staring at the ceiling and trying to adjust to the darkness.
“Lexa, for God’s sake, shut up and go back to sleep,” Clarke says playfully and laughs, never even opening her eyes. “Don’t make me get up,” she warns.
“Don’t threaten me in my bed, Griffin,” you pinch her lightly and she jumps up, gasping.
“I’m taking revenge on you. First thing in the morning,” she brushes her nose along your neck and you gulp.
“Bring it on,” you say as you embrace Clarke tighter. Her hand finds its way under your shirt and rests on your bare stomach. You smile as you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, little by little, step by step.
The darkness opens up your wounds and she closes them again. The daily struggle.