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Clarke knew her snotty nose couldn’t be pretty. She felt like a waterfall was gushing from her nose as she ran through the busy, night time streets of Manhattan. Despite how many people she bumped into, she didn’t stop running. As she neared her crappy apartment building, she dug through her purse, holding back her whimpering. It had been the worst night of Clarke’s life – no, scratch that, the second worse night of Clarke’s life – and all she wanted to do was call Octavia. She ran into the glass door that separated her from the outside street and the main lobby and its grungy, rat filled interior.
“Fuck!” She loudly exclaimed before violently swinging it open, almost knocking down a leg that held the moldy green awning in place. Like it would have mattered, Clarke thought to herself bitterly, approaching the red ‘velvet’ covered staircase, the holes in it already prevent it from successfully being purposeful.
Before ascending to the third floor, another sob escaped her throat and she slid down the wall to sit on the stairs. Normally, Clarke wouldn’t let herself spend so much time in the congested, stuffy area due to the skittering of rats she found herself hearing on a day-to-day basis, but she couldn’t bear to move another muscle. Every part of her was shaking; her fingers could barely dial the number of her best friend.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
Click
Clarke bit her lip hard as she attempted not to start the waterworks she had finally commanded to stop. She tasted blood in her mouth, but she mustered all the strength she had left and stood up, pacing herself as she tread up the flight of steps. When she approached her front door, she felt around in her bag again for her keys and quivered when wiggling the key in the lock. Always fucking jammed…
The first thing Clarke did when she entered her apartment was crack open a bottle of wine. And when she realized the wine could never be strong enough, she spent an hour searching for the lock combination she had Jasper hide for her, so she knew she would only drink the damn tequila when she was desperate. He obviously hadn’t hidden it sufficiently, as he hadn’t wanted her to find it in the first place. But there it was, taped to the back of the toilet bowl.
And there Clarke was, drunk as Raven after she graduated with full honors and a bachelor of aerospace engineering. Clarke hadn’t even gotten drunk that night, she never got drunk. This was an exception though; a rare case. So she dialed again.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
Click
“Fuck it,” Clarke exclaimed, kicking over the stool that was placed in front of hear easel. It was hard, her life; she made little money at her current job babysitting at a running daycare called The Ark, she had just barely snatched a scholarship at the university she was attending, and her mother had practically disowned her for choosing to get a bachelor in fine arts instead of majoring in pharmaceutical sciences or a degree in biomedical engineering technology. Turning on her CD Player, and slipping in Taylor Swift’s 1989, she knew she was in for a night.
Clarke dialed his number.
“You’re damn lucky I got voicemail, Collins. You know what, how dare you come into my life, lie and lie and lie, and then ask me if we can still be friends. Still be friends? ‘It isn’t what it looks like!’”, she imitated, “Well, you can stuff it Collins. Stuff it! And don’t even think about attending the art gala next week, or the next piece I submit to that museum will be your head on a stick!”
Click
She sang Bad Blood at the top of her lungs that night. Over and over until her throat was sore and she ran out of tequila.
She walked, thankfully, to the liqueur store that night. 5th avenue smelled vaguely like her own home at this point; and, she only got hit on three times on the way there. It was a new world record.
Buying 5 more bottles, she was sober enough to know she shouldn’t drink them all, but then again she was too drunk to know the difference between 1 more and 5 more. That’s why Clarke didn’t feel too guilty about getting home and popping the lid off the second bottle of the night.
Ring…
She almost dropped the bottle in surprise. Octavia’s name lit up on her screen in bright blue and she scrambled to sound somewhat put together as she picked up.
“Where the hell have you been? You know what, it doesn’t matter. You know what else doesn’t matter? Finn Collins; Finn Collins doesn’t matter. God, I am so angry right now,” Clarke yelled, voice trembling, before she broke down again and slumped onto her couch, “God, I am so sad right now. I don’t know what to do Octavia, I really don’t. What was I thinking? He was too perfect to be true. At this point, I don’t even blame him. Maybe I was too annoying. Or maybe I was too distracted with the art gala. I knew I should have put him first, I knew it. This one time, you were wrong O. Can you… can you come over? And bring over chocolate chunk?” Clarke whispered, barely forming the words.
Click
It made Clarke cry again, kind of; the feeling of being alone. She missed her dad. She missed Wells. She missed Lexa – but no, she couldn’t open up that can of worms again. Clarke left it alone.
It was an hour after the phone call the Clarke heard a knock at the door. Terrified, she slowly padded over to look through the peep hole, because what if it was him. She couldn’t take seeing him now, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold herself back from taking a knife and…
It sure wasn’t him by a long shot. Clarke opened the door slowly and tried to compile herself.
“Hey, we spoke on the phone earlier? I’m Bellamy,” he smirked, and chuckled at her baffled expression, “I brought you chocolate chunk.”