❛ the ground. that's the dream. ❜
On the list 𝘓𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘱 𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦, getting arrested is definitely up there. But, hey! At least there's a silver lining ━━ getting shoved into a drops...
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[ tw:self-harm (ish? i think it counts), also torture, we all know what happens this episode🙃 ]
THE DROPSHIP HAS BECOME a world of its own; the air rusty and the walls of tombstone-grey smothering its inhabitants.
As the spacecraft shudders like a leaf ruthless wind, the hurricane continues to unfurl and bear down upon the ninety-three with a wrath worthy of gods. Everything stinks of stress and agitation. The heat is smothering. Every little movement sends the air screaming feverishly. Lyra was made for the unbound vastness of the stars, not this raging dropship, and her body reacts so violently that she screws her eyes shut and prays she won't vomit. It's a horrid climate and one that seems to eat her to her very bones.
Sweat plasters her damp hair to the nape of her neck. Breathing shakily through her chapped lips, trying to ignore the sandpaper tongue that's leaden in her parched mouth, she tightens her ponytail. Anxiety is churning in her belly. Both her head and her heart pound equally loudly. She's rapping her foot to the rapid staccato of her heart, not caring about the echo that's muffled in the damp air. She can only predict how any of this is going to end. Bellamy's dragged the Grounder to the third floor to do whatever, meanwhile Finn's life has been placed entirely in the hands of a bunch of teenagers.
One, two, three, four. She counts each breath feverishly. Five, six, seven, eight. . .
"The blade is at a sharp upward angle," Clarke announces shakily from the makeshift surgical table. "Between his sixth and seventh rib."
. . . twelve, thirteen, fourteen. . .
Abby's voice crackles from the poor connection. "OK, how deep?"
Lyra chances a glance at Finn. If anything, he's only gotten worse. Clarke's been relaying her mom a thorough analysis of his condition ever since the radio strengthened, every word well-thought out in her graphic descriptions from the discolouration of his skin to his erratic breathing. Beads of sweat gather across his pale chest as it heaves unevenly, a hasty huff of hair exhaling from his dry lips.
. . . forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty ━━ someone bumps into shoulder. A boy behind her breathes through his mouth noisily. She fights the urge to scream.
