[There's no control in it. What might have been the aftermath of another bad dream on any other day is like torture right now, his memories being ripped open, flooded into his mind as if he was back there. The bunker. The room after they took his mother's body away. The clifftop where Charlotte had killed herself. Bellamy only has a place in the last, walking away with the others, and it echoes as he pushes into Murphy's head and puts himself in all of them. The bleed of leaving him still seeping even as he pulls Murphy in, fills the empty spaces.
The hopeless chill of isolation starts to recede, warmth of connection pushing it back. Murphy wants to clutch to it, and he hates that, hates the need and how close he is to giving in. When had he ever had that option before? When had it ever not been ripped away from him?]
(You don't know that.)
[Snapped, hard, and his mind twists sharply, pulls on the memories like blades. The first week, believing he'd find a way out, break the door down, pry it open. The hope Jaha would come to find him. But he never did. He left him there. Alone in the unrelenting press of day after day, grinding everything in him down to nothing, until the only way out was dying slow from starvation or dying fast from the gun in his hands. The trigger under his finger, the press of the barrel under his chin, despair an unbearable, black weight in his head.]
cw: attempted suicide
The hopeless chill of isolation starts to recede, warmth of connection pushing it back. Murphy wants to clutch to it, and he hates that, hates the need and how close he is to giving in. When had he ever had that option before? When had it ever not been ripped away from him?]
( You don't know that. )
[Snapped, hard, and his mind twists sharply, pulls on the memories like blades. The first week, believing he'd find a way out, break the door down, pry it open. The hope Jaha would come to find him. But he never did. He left him there. Alone in the unrelenting press of day after day, grinding everything in him down to nothing, until the only way out was dying slow from starvation or dying fast from the gun in his hands. The trigger under his finger, the press of the barrel under his chin, despair an unbearable, black weight in his head.]