The work of art was intense and beautiful, a dying depiction of the boy's thoughts. He signed it 'James,' the last work he would ever create under that name. As soon as the 's' was signed, he would become someone entirely different, someone without this fiery art inside him. After the 's' was signed, James would be lost and broken forever.
Sawyer clung desperately to a spare piece of driftwood, having kicked himself as close to shore as his legs would allow. He felt his consciousness slipping away, no doubt sped up by the bullet wound in his shoulder. He hoped he wasn't dying; there was a woman onshore he needed to see before he passed into the unknown. But even as he tightened his grip on the wood he clutched so close, he passed out.
Olivia Keller's main priority for a long time had been watching things. As an art and movie critic, she had trained her eye to catch the things others missed, and as an amateur detective, she needed that eye to make her living. So upon being stranded on this godforsaken island, she had made it her business to figure things out. Rather luckily, as it turned out, she did her best thinking and figuring watching the horizon. She raised a cry as soon as she saw the flash of skin and stripped down to a manageable amount of clothing when someone else moved on her piece of shore to find out what was going on. Strong strokes brought her to the limp body of one of their own. Olivia hooked an arm around the man and started swimming.
Panting, Olivia deposited the body on the sand and intensely began CPR. When Jack came running, he took over management of Sawyer's chest, alternating pounding on it and taking care of his shoulder while she continued breathing into his mouth. After an eternity and a half, the limp form jerked and rattled with life, water gushing out of his mouth. He opened his eyes to meet Olivia's, but looking at her was not the man she knew. His shell, his wall, was broken.
James Ford was spilling his heart and soul to the woman who had saved him. He told her of his father, his mother, and the man who changed his life forever. He told her of his journey from foster home to foster home, and of his discovery of art. One piece in particular he described in detail, allowing the art critic to see the painting in her mind's eye.
"It was a woman," he said. "A tall, beautiful, skinny woman with long blonde hair and a silver dress. She was perfect in every sense of the word, except she was faceless." Olivia nodded, her eyes closed, seeing the painting. "The woman was all I can remember...of my mother. It is also the last painting I ever signed James - the last painting I ever did." Olivia's eyes snapped open.
"That painting, James, was the signature legible?"
"Yes...I wanted it to remain a standing testament to the end of who I had been."
"And all in caps?"
"Ye-es...where are you going with this, cupcake?" The familiar use of his nickname for her made her laugh and pat his scruffy cheek.
"James, that painting is hanging in my front hallway. I bought it at a home auction; it must have been your last foster home." Olivia and James beamed at each other.
Olivia was completely unaware that as she said those words to him, she mended the broken boy who left his best work of art in a place he didn't care about. James was completely unaware he was falling in love.