AN: My telling of the night that changed Sawyer's life forever. Some spoilers for Season 1. Written awhile ago.
One Night
He slammed the car door, loudly. He'd never felt so angry, so damned betrayed in his whole life. How could that bitch do that to him? All his money, gone, not to mention his dignity, because she was so weak, so… stupid. She just couldn't resist herself. Why the hell would she actually believe that he was interested in her, that he would make her problems just disappear? She would pay for that.
He was drunk. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that. He knew, on some level, that what he was planning to do probably wasn't the smartest idea he'd ever had. That if he waited till he was sober, he would come up with some other way around it. A voice was telling him to wait, to think. But he suppressed that little voice. He refused to listen to it. What the hell did it know, anyway? He was the laughing stock of the whole town, thanks to her.
He stormed up to the house. It was only when he was at the door that he realised he didn't have his key. At least, he didn't think he did. His mind was so blurry, so focused on what he had to do that he didn't have time to focus on such trivial things as where the hell he'd left his keys. He started thumping loudly on the door, yelling. This seemed better, anyway. He decided he didn't want to surprise her. He wanted her to fear him, to know what was coming. So she'd have some idea of just what she'd done to him.
It was working. He could hear her running to the door. She opened it. Why the hell did she open it? Did she really not know what was about to happen? Apparently not, he realised, slightly amused, as she took in the sight of the gun.
She started screaming. Begging, pleading with him to stop, to think. He didn't want to think. He couldn't stop. He had to do it. She deserved it. He pulled the trigger.
Silence. That was all he could focus on. He realised now, with a jolt, just how much he had been screaming, too. He hadn't noticed before. Probably disturbed the neighbours, he thought to himself with strange satisfaction. He's always hated them. He looked down at his wife. Suddenly, he realised fully what he'd done. He felt sick. But why? It was what was best, wasn't it? That's why he'd done it. But it didn't make sense anymore. Typical.
Seeing the mess at his feet, what was once the woman he loved, he felt that something should be stopping him from continuing with his plan. It didn't. If anything, it just seemed more natural to continue. He looked up, and realised he was just outside his son's room. It seemed poetic, that both their lives would end so close to the living being who was unlucky enough to be a combination of the two of them. Then he remembered his son wasn't there. Lucky. Why the hell hadn't he considered that before? Sure, he was a little rough with the kid sometimes, and they definitely didn't have an ideal father-son relationship. But to make him hear, or see, something like what had just happened, what was going to happen? Even he wasn't that cold. Maybe if he'd thought the kid was there…No. It had to happen.
He realised he'd been walking, ever so slowly towards his son's room. Why, he didn't know. He felt drawn to it. He knew he didn't want his own body lying on top of his wife's. They had to be separate; because that's the way they'd been in life those past months. So he had to go to another room. But this one…
It was the closest room. That's all it was. When his body was found, and they discovered how much alcohol he'd had, no one would wonder why, of all the places he could have done it, it had to be in this room. They'd think he was too drunk to know what he was doing. Hell, maybe he was. He wouldn't fully admit to himself that he wanted to be near his son, one last time. Sure, it was twisted, but he did love his son, in his own way. He was a reminder of happier times, and that's what he wanted to think about in his last moments.
It surprised him that he was thinking so coherently. Even more surprising was how slow time was suddenly going. It took forever to reach the bed. He sat down heavily, looking around. Images, relics of a childhood that would never be the same again. He felt sorry for the kid. It occurred to him, far too late, as always, that the boy needed his mother. He'd taken that away from him. But still, it had to be done. He'll understand when he's older, he rationalized. He knew it wasn't true.
He considered, briefly, not doing what he'd planned. Losing both parents like this, in one night… But he couldn't raise his son alone. Even if they'd had a perfect relationship in the past, killing his mother would change everything. He'd blame him. Best he kept going. Maybe he wouldn't hate him if he died too.
He looked around, one last time. Drinking in the memories, hoping he could take these ones with him. He raised the gun, slowly. I'm sorry, James. It surprised him that, for once, he didn't have anything sarcastic to say. He pulled the trigger.
Just before everything went black, he thought he heard a small whimper.
End