Work Text:
“He gets the flu. His father steals medicine that turns out wouldn't help anyway. Gets floated for it and... Uh... His mother, she starts drinking. Pretty heavily after that and... Last words she said to him before he finds her in a pool of her own vomit is that... Is that he killed his father." The boy finished.
"Boo-hoo." Raven spat in return.
He smiled back at her, knowing that he deserved it.
-•-
John had just gotten back home from school. Well, home as in a small, cramped room. He had another failed test to show his parents. They were both experts at their trade. His father was a doctor, his mother, a mechanic.
And then there was John, seemingly not good at anything, his father always liked to think he'd be a good doctor, though. Always believed in him. He was only five, yet knew the human body well enough. His father often took him to the medical district. There was a little blonde girl there, about his same age, and the daughter of Abby Griffin, head of medical. Clarke was her name, when he first saw her, she seemed serious, like her mother. And since then, he had made a mental note to not go near her.
His mother liked to think of him as a mechanic. He just liked the idea of blowing things up. Although, he had also liked Raven. She was funny, and shared his happiness in the thought of bombs and things going ka-boom. They had exchanged words a couple of times, that stopped when Raven got sick.
He was the first that noticed, saying that she should go to the doctor. She guessed she got sick from her mother, a "pathetic drunk" as Raven had called her- he hadn't known what the word "drunk" meant yet.
Never having the strongest of immune systems, he got sick. Badly sick. His father, being the doctor he was, immediately went to get medicine. John had overheard one of his parents hushed arguments while he pretended to sleep.
"Alex, you'll get caught. Not even your authorization can get more medicine than the normal amount. She'll find out. And besides, Maybe he'll get better on his own." His mother lied.
"We both know that waiting this out won't work. I already told you, he has the worse case of the flu I've ever seen. He won't make it. Not without the right medicine. I'll ask Abby." He replied.
"And what if Abby says no, Alex?" She asked, already knowing his answer. There was no changing his mind, so she gave up. That was when his father strode over to the side of the bed, he kneeled down and gave his shoulder a little shake.
"Hey, John. How are you doing?" He asked, knowing that his son wouldn't answer. "Well, don't worry if you don't feel the best right now. You'll feel good as new, soon." His father finished, standing up.
John was never one for intimacy, but he knew that if his father was caught, this would be the last time he'd get a chance to say goodbye. So the little boy meekly sat up and hugged his father's neck.
"Please don't get caught." John whimpered out. His older friend Atom's father got floated, and Atom was never the same after it. He didn't want that to happen to him. He didn't want any of that to have to happen to him.
His father slowly pulled his arms off, sliding him under the covers as his mother protested behind them, trying to convince Alex that his life mattered more than some air headed little boy. That was the first time John's mother had called him anything but nice.
-•-
John was awoken calmly by his father, he had the medicine in his hand. And John smiled, he had nothing to worry about after all. But that was before he heard his mother talking- no, pleading- with the guards. His father kept his promise; giving his son the medicine needed to live before he was floated was apparently allowed, or maybe it was because he was such a respected doctor. The boy jumped up, causing his head to go in spirals.
"No! They can't do that! Tell them they can't do that..." He shouted at his father.
"I'll be fine, buddy. Just be strong for me, okay?" Jack spoke softly. John looked past his father, looking at his mother.
"When?" He asked, sniffling back tears. She glared back at him, that wasn't his mother. His mother was sweet, and she never glared at him.
"Two days. Apparently, they've been a little backed up lately." His father replied. In three days he'd be six years old. His father would never get to see his son turn six. The guards walked through the door confidently, grabbing his father's shoulder.
"Alex Murphy, you are under arrest for exceeding the maximum amount of medicine for a youth." They spoke, yanking him out of the room as Jack's wife and son begged for his life to be saved.
-•-
It had been two days, the medicine ending up being nothing but sugar and fake shit. His sickness ended up being something only the human body could get rid of. But John was strong enough to be able to walk over to where his father was getting floated. His mother had stayed silent for the whole two days. She didn't eat, didn't even leave their room. Which in turn meant that John wasn't eating. Not like he would've eaten food if it was given to him.
They turned a corner, and there his father was, on his knees in front of chancellor Jaha. John wondered what his noble father was doing, but then he came in ear shot. His father was pleading with Jaha, pleading for his life. That was when the guards noticed him and his mother, pushing them away, back into the hallway. They weren't getting any special treatment, no "last goodbye," nothing more than when the boy was sick in bed, not fully processing what was happening.
And so he stood out in the hall, his mother keeping a small distance from her son. All he heard was the doors opening, and a horrible sound, like his father screaming, only for his screams to be drowned out by a vacuum of some sort. He covered his ears, slightly glad that he wasn't able to watch. And the sounds, the smells, the feelings, they all just melted together, making his head spin.
He was six when his father died. He was seven when his mother discovered drinking. Two years of nothing but drowning in school, his mother drowning in alcohol. It was terrible. Nothing but failed tests and teachers telling him he wouldn't go anywhere in life. Mr. Pike (or Mr. Puke as he had called him), was his least favourite.
Mr. Pike was just finishing his lecture about how much of a failed citizen Murphy was when a tanned boy with freckles and curly dark hair showed up, an ace in history, and kind of a teacher's pet. Bellamy calmed the angered teacher down, letting Murphy escape more of his insufferable yelling. Mr. Pike eventually just sighed and walked back into the classroom.
"You're John, right? I'm Bel-"
"It's Murphy." He snapped quickly, only his father called him John. He looked up at the other boys face, realizing Bellamy's confusion.
"Okay… Murphy it is. Besides, Murphy is a way better name.” Bellamy replied, sensing the other boys pain.
And that was how he and Bellamy met.
he looked up to the guy, always listened when Bellamy spoke, he was the only person that actually tried to understand Murphy. It wasn't too long after that, Murphy was introduced to Miller.
Miller was almost as cool as Bellamy, Murphy and him were in the same class. Miller had darker skin, and short hair, almost stubble. They told each other every secret. Miller came out to them before even telling his father.
But that was about all Murphy's life had to offer in terms of good memories. His teachers were still a pain, and home was worse.
"John Murphy! You fucking disappointment! Don't you dare open that door!" His mother screeched, she was drunk again. He slowly closed the door. And that meant Murphy was going to have more bruises to bring with him to show and tell the next day. But he'd never tell. Not even Bellamy and Miller. He also never told them about why he always looked so underfed. How else was his mother going to get her fill of beer?
But this time was different. His mother was not just an angry drunk like usual. She had only hit him five times before she was throwing up a mix of blood and alcohol. She slumped down against a wall.
"John, you fucking catastrophe. You're the reason he's dead. Do you hear me? My husband is fucking dead! And it's all because of you. You killed him." She slid down the wall, onto her back. She coughed up more vomit, choking on it. And she started to convulse rapidly, spazzing out, he stared on in horror, not able to pull his eyes away; her words haunting him.
Murphy was eight when his mother died. His own mother, dead on his floor, yet he was happy.
He took off out of the room, in a beeline for Bellamy's home. He had only walked with Bellamy to his place once, it was when his mother had been shouting before he even got to his door. They had quickly turned around, to go to the older boys place, a sort of safe haven to wait out his mother's storm. Bellamy often walked him home, along with Miller. Good thing Murphy had a memory for everything but school.
He slammed on Bellamy's door, waiting there for a couple minutes, he heard scuffling and hushed voices on the other side, wondering if he should knock again. He lifted his hand to the door, when it swung open, Bellamy's mother opening it. She looked him up and down. A stick of a boy with stringy, dark brown hair, pale blue eyes looking wild, and an assortment of scars and bruises.
"Is Bellamy home?" He barely squeaked out. She looked concerned, before turning around and calling Bellamy over.
It only took a couple hours for his mother's body to be taken out of his room, and floated. The Ark had its fair share of orphans. Often leaving them to their lonesome, it took a little too long for the council to be able to move someone out of their home, let alone take care of a child. So Murphy lived by himself, and started gaining more weight. He never got to be the beef cake that was Bellamy and Miller, but he was at least better.
The guards didn't exactly like him, he often made fun of them, sticking his tongue out and taunting them. He was sixteen when Bellamy told him and Miller that his sister, yes, he had a sister, named Octavia, was arrested. For being born. Bellamy looked so distraught about her, and Murphy couldn't stand the guard for arresting someone for such a stupid reason. That was when he got possibly the worst idea ever.
He went to the arresting officers courters, locking the door behind him, and looked around for something to get him in trouble. That's when he saw a lighter and a canteen of alcohol in the corner of the room. He strolled over casually and picked up the canister as he started to move about the room, creating a trail of liquor over top of the officers desk. When the canister finally emptied, he threw it away, pulling the lighter out, he tossed it at the guards desk, and his line of liquor lit up around the room, he smiled, probably looked like a madman.
"Fire in the hole!" He shouted, just as the desk went up in flame, the fire burning brightly, reflecting off his eyes. He might've said it looked beautiful, but he wasn't one to say nice things. The guards locked him up pretty quick. And his plan to keep Octavia safe and impress Bellamy seemed to be going quite well. Then it hit him that:
A. He was going to die when he turned 18.
And B. Octavia was a girl. And so he'd never actually get to see her, let alone protect her.
They walked past Bellamy on their way over, Murphy smirked, and Bellamy looked back at him with disappointment.
-•-
So there he was, getting hauled off to the lock-up (or the "Sky Box" as everyone else called it).
And he stayed there. For one full year; and a little bit more, he never kept track. He had forgotten everyone outside of his gang in lock up. It was small, only consisting of him, an older boy named John Mbege, he often reminded Murphy of Miller, for the exception of Mbege's sharper jawline. Aside from Mbege, they occasionally stood up for a burnout, Jasper Jordan. Jasper didn't hang out with them much, he shared a room with some other smoker boy- Monty? He didn't care.
Their cell had gotten completely covered in scrawls of an assortment of swears and other inappropriate pictures. Most of them done by Murphy himself. He often didn't sleep, kept awake by his mother's last words. The Blakes were forgotten to him, he couldn't remember Bellamy, even if he tried to.
-•-
“Dude, I'm telling you, girls don't have beach balls for boobs.” Mbege stated, glancing over at Murphy from where he lay on one of their cots, he often critiqued Murphy’s work.
“Like you'd know, dickwad.” Murphy spat back, not willing to put energy into giving a better comeback.
He was just was finishing the last usable space of wall with what he thought was a very nice drawing of a mostly naked lady, when guards opened the door to his cell, weapons raised. Mbege jumped up from his bed, a look of horror on his face- Mbege was turning eighteen next month. But Murphy wasn't. He still had another year.
"What's happening? We aren't eighteen, you guys have to suffer with us for a little bit lo-" They cut him off by gutting him in the ribs with their electric stab-sticks. And he slammed onto the floor.