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There is no way to explain the sensation of a joint slipping out of place to someone who has never experienced it. It is terrifying and painful and I would go through it a thousand times to keep Bellamy from falling. Lucky for me, I only had to do it twice.
The first was when Finn rolled away from the spear, dropping the rope. Never mind that that left just me. Never mind that I’d cleverly wrapped the rope around my wrist, to make it easier to hold onto. He rolled away, and my wrist popped out like a loose tooth – there one moment, gone the next, almost too fast to hurt. I didn’t even think to cry out, I was too desperate to find purchase for my feet, to find some way to keep from toppling over the edge, taking everyone down with me. Not that it would be the first time.
The second one wasn’t as bad. While Finn and Monroe pulled hand over hand, I wrapped the slack around my arm and rolled to my feet, putting my full weight into it (and taking the strain off my wrist.) I didn’t see it, but the rope slipped once more, just a little – just enough to pop my shoulder out as well. That time I did cry out, but it was lost in the general noise, and if anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.
There is no way to explain the horror of watching people gunned down (even if those ‘people’ are Grounders,) and being powerless to stop it. I choked out as many words as I could around the rising bile, but they weren’t enough, they weren’t the right ones, because of course they weren’t, because it was me saying them, and when he finally stopped, when the Princess showed up and looked at him with the same revulsion I felt, it was all I could do not to be sick. My wrist and shoulder and back and legs and stomach and hands throbbed and ached, and I don’t know how I stayed upright but I did. I did all the way back to the camp, or at least I mostly did. Whenever we stopped, whenever Bellamy and Finn and the Princess weren’t paying attention (when Bellamy stopped watching me like a hawk, following along behind me so close I could feel him there,) I gave in, just a little. I found a sturdy tree and leaned against it, or I collapsed to the ground, and if the others saw me, if they noticed, I’d cut my eyes towards Finn as if to say, wouldn’t you be, too? After that, wouldn’t you be? And no one said anything so I didn’t, either.
Bellamy took my gun away, of course. I don’t know, I guess if Spacewalker snapped, how could he possibly trust me? I almost didn’t mind – the guns are heavy, and, exhausted and sore as I was, there was no way for me to hold it with just my good arm. It weighed on me, and it was almost a relief when he held his hands out for it, looking meaningfully at me when I raised an eyebrow. I didn’t blame him, not really. I like to think I’ve gotten better, since the Ark came down, but maybe I’m just fooling myself along with everyone else. Most everyone, anyway.
I ducked away as soon as I could once we got back to camp. It wasn’t hard – if I’m not misbehaving, they don’t tend to pay a lot of attention to me. I got a bucket of water and took it to my tent (in the farthest, darkest corner of the camp.) Getting my shirt over my head was almost impossible, and I’m not too proud to admit I almost passed out. I finally managed to squirm my way out, and when the dim light from the crappy lantern I’d managed to get a hold of hit my skin, I almost wished I’d just left the damn thing on. My right arm was covered in bruises from shoulder to wrist, and the purple and blue was bookended nicely by the swelling. My palms, wrists, and forearms were covered in friction burns and seatbelt buckle imprints. My elbows and the area right above my hips on both sides were pocked with gravel marks, some quite deep, one still sporting a piece of gravel.
All in all, just not a very pretty picture.
Mbege was ambidextrous, but I’m shit with my left hand, which led to a lot of water on the ground and even more cursing. I kept dropping my shirt (which, resourceful as I am, I was using as a washrag,) and instinctively reaching to catch it with my right hand. Of course, any sudden movement (like reaching out to catch something, for example,) sent shooting pains from my wrist to my shoulder and straight to my head.
By the time I’d cleaned the dried blood away from the gravel marks on both sides, I was nauseous with the pain. I collapsed onto my bedroll, burying my head in my knees and ignoring the tears that were probably leaving clean trails down my filthy face. I mean, of course they were, because suddenly I realized that the steady thumping outside was footsteps, and then that stupid, deep voice,
“Murphy?”
but not the tone I’m used to, not the in-charge, King of the Surface tone. This time, his voice was almost gentle, almost hesitant, but that didn’t stop me from jumping about a mile, scrubbing at my face and wincing because I forgot, of course, and tried to use both hands, which meant bending my right arm and trying to move my shoulder and my wrist, but at least I idn’t cry out in front of Bellamy, who had already come in through the flap.
“Murphy,”
his eyebrows drew together and this totally weird look came across his face, the same kind of look he got when he was with Octavia or the Princess. Concern, maybe, almost. His dark eyes swept over my bare skin, taking in the deep bruises and the swelling and the fresh blood, and it was definitely concern.
“Here, chew on these,”
he held his hand out, and I reached out without thinking, taking the handful of herbs from him and putting them in my mouth. Because I shouldn’t have, but I trusted Bellamy completely, despite everything. Because maybe he tried to kill me, but I tried to kill him, too, and I guess maybe for both of us, in some weird way, that made us even, and we were back where we started, more or less. At least for me.
Almost as soon as the bitter taste of the herbs had completely overtaken my mouth, the throbbing in my arm started to ease, and the nausea went down a little. I could swallow without tasting bile, and I think maybe the smile I gave Bellamy was a little too sincere, a little too grateful, but the pain was less now and he did that. Maybe that smile was the reason he came over, sat down on the bedroll next to me and took the wet shirt from my lap and let the question show on his face so he didn’t have to say it out loud. He didn’t make me answer out loud, either, just nodded and started to wash the grime and sweat from my skin, gently, making soft noises when I hissed or shrank away.
“You were brave,”
he said, quietly, as he washed my back, careful of my shoulder, and maybe it was the herbs or the pain or his hands that were so gentle against me, but I felt like I had to tell him.
“I wanted to drop her.”
“I know.”
“Not you. I wanted to save you, I needed to save you. But I wanted to drop her.”
“I know,”
he repeated, and his hands were still gentle against me, he hadn’t stopped washing, moving down to mop up the fresh blood on my hips.
“But you didn’t. You wanted to, but you didn’t. You were brave, and you saved us both.”
He shifted, moving around to sit in front of me and catching my eyes.
“You saved us both. Thank you.”