I don't own Lost, I just like to play with it a bit! Unfortunately I don't own Ben Linus or Michael Emerson either. Please read and review.
Zero
The sound of the waves beating against the shore lulled him slowly into sleep's waiting arms. There was something quite beautiful about the way he dreamt, or so he had always thought, his dreams crept up on him ever so stealthily that sometimes he could not remember what was dream and what was real. He had always imagined that his subconscious was like some other person in the depths of thick cloud, and it was only when sleep came that this mysterious and intriguing person was unveiled. He felt more alive in his dreams that he did in any waking moment. His subconscious could do anything it wanted: when his father struck he could strike him back, he could stand there with blood on his hands and there would be no consequences. In his dreams he wasn't tied to the life that he led, pathetically weak, but he was strong and took control of his own fate. But then, in the morning, he would wake and it would all be over. He was once again a zero.
A chill breeze stirred him before he was able to fall into the sweet darkness of sleep's embrace. Gradually, he lifted himself up so that he was propped on his elbows looking out to sea, absorbing every single detail. He was in his most favourite place on the Island: a stony shore, with only the lapping of the waves and the moon to keep him company. Away from people, and the frustrations of life; away from him, and all the hurt that came with him. Here he didn't feel so powerless. It seemed to him that, if he so wished, he would be able to control the speed of the incoming waves. He was in control of his own destiny on this small stony shore; no one could disturb the peace he found here.
Behind him the jungle surrounded the edge of the rocky beach; so densely packed were the trees that they managed to block out any noise that might happen to drift across the Island. There was no sound of a rumbling Dharma van, or the intense high-pitched ringing of the sonar fence. It was as if the beach existed in its own little world that could not be penetrated by anyone or anything but him. He had certainly never seen a single soul during his increasingly frequent visits there, only the odd cry of a native bird would ever disturb the peace. He had not even shown or told Annie about his own personal heaven, if she had ever asked where he disappeared at night he was sure that he would have told her, but then she never asked.
The wind began to pick up and he shivered, drawing his jacket closer about his body, trying to trap the heat inside. On the cool night air he could smell salt, it was so refreshing it lifted any remnants of sleep from his mind; he took another deep lungful and exhaled slowly. Sometimes it was the smell of the place that nearly broke him: it was so pure. Usually, when he was at home, all he could smell was the stench of stale beer, rotting food and the odour that seemed to leak from his father whenever he was near. The smell of the shore, though, made him feel alive again. It made him feel as though his nerve-endings were on fire. But the feeling never lasted, the moment he crept back into his home and tip-toed past his snoring father, it disappeared. Perhaps that was why he kept returning: nowhere else did he feel more relaxed and alive at the same time, and he was slowly becoming addicted to it.