Branded

She would not be mine willingly, and so I would take her unwillingly. I was not a crude man; I would not do it with harsh words, or rough kisses and prying fingers. My intention was never to break her. Just to brand her. There are three parts of her, there were three places to brand. I would start with the hardest, her min., leading to the heart and then the body, a final act of hubris. I would imprison her in pieces, in boxes.

I never realized how terrible and dangerous Benjamin Linus was until I was his. Until I was in love with him.

"Ben, you know I never read Classics. I just don't get them."

"Some would argue that 1984 is a classic Juliet."

"It's far from my favorite book Ben, I understand it, but I can't say I like it. It's too dark Ben, there is no hope."

"And utter destruction both psychological and mental contains hope Juliet? I think you are too optimistic about your precious Stephen King, maybe-"

"Optimistic? Carrie may destroy many things, but she is an individual she is acting as a person, not as every person. And even her destruction is a part of her own problems which are beautiful in the way that they contrast with the good around her."

"Person? She sounds like a monster to me, Juliet."

"No one is a monster."

"Aah."

If no one is a monster, I cannot be a monster. Now she has to deal with me, with my decisions as human ones she cannot compartmentalize. So even when I acted like one she would not be able to disobey, to cast me as a villain. As an antagonist, as a foil certainly, but black and white was forever banished from her world

In the first conversation I noticed nothing. The second one wasn't a conversation and it devastated me more than he could comprehend. It made him hate me and he knew that he must have been aware.

Her hands wrapped around his face, touched his decaying stubble and closed his eyes. His flesh wasn't cold, though there was no innate warmth in it, but like any other surface baking out in the tropical sun. She cleaned his wounds with her tears, half scrunched over.

She thought Ben was gone, thought he would at least give her time. Time she had liberally taken, it had been at least five hours. The sun was now covered with clouds and night was beginning to fall.

And as night fell, so did she, onto Goodwin's chest, still crying. She couldn't go back she couldn't face them, him, she amended. She wanted to prove to him she hated him, but her emotions were not so communicable. She loved Goodwin, in that sad bittersweet way only adults can love, but it didn't transfer into hate properly.

Her conscious mind could read it, but her conscious mind also knew that no one could be a monster and that she had known the price. Her conscious mind was entrenched with guilt, and her heart was paralyzed by grief.

A, hand on her shoulder, quietly. She turned around expecting to see Colleen or even Mickial, but it was him. "As much time as I need," she bit out bitterly not even thinking. Her words were stunted with the echoes of sobs. She wanted for them to be more than just echoes, to embarrass him, to infuriate him, but the sobs wouldn't come.

"It is not love that holds you back Juliet," he said calmly, his hand moving to brush her hair, to tangle his fingers in her curls, but then retreated. "But fear." And then he did touch her a gentle touch on the cheek that she couldn't help leaning into, just enough that the sound of his soft calm breaths became clearer.

"I am not afraid of you," she said angrily.

"I know," he smiled wisely, "but if you were, you wouldn't have to be. My actions are rather predictable."

And she sunk to her knees stricken with guilt, reminded that she had seen the storm on the radar for many miles to come and had done nothing. Ben was that way, a storm immovable, unchangeable. You do not blame the wind for blowing or the ground for breaking, you blame the man who does not tell the other that it will happen.

Juliet wept again. Ben helped her up, lugging her up from the ground and into his embrace. She was crumpled against him, twitching in despair. He tilted his head, and whispered in her ear, "I forgive you."

It was cruel, it was even needless. Goodwin was scheduled to leave the island soon, with his wife. Unlike Juliet they had no purpose here, no need to stay. They had both contributed what I needed them to contribute to the community. But I wanted the next stroke to be as visable as the other was invisible. But still she didn't realize the bigger plan, she saw pain, saw grief, but she had no real concept of what I was doing.

I hate myself for that day. For being blinded by grief and guilt. And I hate myself for being able to discard both. And accept something strange and wrong in return. But even that was my fault, Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. But what about the third time, what does that mean?

The iron was unspeakably hot, but the pain wasn't the scariest part. The way her flesh sizzled, and crackled. The way the oils would not bubble but just heated until it wasn't the flame that was scalding her but the heat of her own skin. Then it was gone. She wish it had stayed, she wished. Oh god! She wished that it had never left, for as painful as it was, it offered clarity. It eliminated it all other feelings, sensations, but her self and a thought.

A thought that had been lingering in her brain since their conversation, since goodwin's death, since she had first shaken his hand. He wanted her, he wanted her more than anything and he would do anything to get her. She had been watching and seen the obvious things. But she had not expected poison.

She had not expected him to slowly contaminate her, first with words, then with love and hate, not with deeds. His arrogance, she had to be his in every way. She had to be thoroughly his. And it wasn't until she realized exactly how much she didn't want to be that she was.

She had given him, unknowingly key after key to her heart and mind, and had given them in ignorance. He was a thief, a murder and a sophist. And now she was his, branded.