Title: Crosses in the Sand.
Author: Terri
Rating: K
Summary: Life doesn't stop for death, but someone will always remember the lost.
Spoilers/Warnings: Character death, but no real spoilers.
Disclaimer: Lost is the creation of J.J Abrams and Damon Lindelof – nothing familiar to the show belongs to me.
Author's Notes: This is the by-product of an idea I had, which involved Kate remembering Boone and wondering why everyone else seemed to have forgotten him really quickly. Sawyer was going to be in the Fic in a comforting role (with slight romantic undertones), but suddenly the whole thing took on a life of it's own. In the end I wrote it on the premise that Sawyer had died and Kate was remembering him. However, the person Kate is thinking about is not named and there isn't really anything that specifies one person or another, therefore it's up too you (as a reader) who you want her to be imagining.
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She doesn't understand how life reverted back to normal so quickly. Nobody seems to be in mourning anymore, all of them getting on with their lives, coping with being stranded as best they can. In all fairness she realises that some people didn't really know him; even so there aren't many of them left.
There's a part of her that continues on as normal – the person she pretends to be with everyone bar him. No matter what happens there is still fruit to be picked, water to be fetched. It's routine now; to provide for other people, to help them survive. She does it though, without any protest. Sometimes she even manages to smile. Then she'll look over her shoulder and everything falls away.
Dirt is still piled in a mound, not yet flattened. It is the only indication of what lies there, no crudely made cross has been placed as a memorial. Again she wonders why. He deserves to have one; maybe someone should make one. She thinks about doing it herself – even starts towards the jungle where she knows there are branches and vines that she can tie together. Before she reaches the tree line her feet stop moving. She should ask first, though she doesn't know which person. The thought terrifies her irrationally and so she abandons the idea. Staring at the site, memorising its exact location so she won't forget.
Turning on her heel the ocean is her new destination. The waves are lapping against her feet when she stops, soaking her shoes and trousers. Her eyes search the horizon like they do everyday. Still there is nothing. Only the sun's glare and an infinite amount of water. Lowering herself to the sand her fingers begin to sweep over the wet grains beneath her. Unconsciously she makes two piles on either side of her, and with her nails she scrapes crosses into the piles. The sea washes them away faster than she can rebuild them and tears begin to blur her vision.
Completely stunned her mind works through her emotions, her thoughts, trying to discover why she's suddenly crying. Her fingers are still making crosses in the wet sand, even as the waves tumble over her skin. He is not remembered anymore, nobody talks about him. Memories cloud her eyesight, moments in which she relives his burial, watches as people cry. They are over as quickly as they began – a testament to how little time was spent grieving.
Her fingers ache now, but they do not cease their movement. She will not allow it. Even though her attempt is futile she carries on in the hope that there will be one cross the sea will not claim.
Tattered bits of material blow against her skin and the wind heightens his smell. The shirt had been his favourite – something she doesn't remember being told – after his death some nameless survivor had attempted to procure it for her husband. She'd pointed a gun at the woman – who had shakily handed over the shirt. She'd been wearing it ever since. Grasping a fistful of the material in one hand (her other still focused on the crosses in the sand) she clings to possibly the only physical reminder she has of him.
After his death she hadn't been sociable, she'd taken refuge in a solitary clearing not even contemplating coming back here. In her absence people had raided his things, taken what they wanted and kept things to barter with. Surprisingly Shannon had found her 3 days after and demanded she come back to the beach. Shannon had been outraged at what the others were doing, but she was too weak to stop them. They had brushed aside the blonde haired princess, even giving her a bruised cheek in their hurry.
She ran then, like her entire life depended on it. When her legs ached and her lungs burned she continued running. Stumbling to the beach she threw up without stopping and pointed the gun at the woman with his shirt. Everyone stopped. Anything they held that belonged to him was either hidden or dropped. These people disgusted her. His shelter was full of people who had claimed it for their own. She'd threatened to kill them too. They'd hastily packed their things and left.
The lower part of her body is now submerged in the water, but still she does not stop. Once more she lets her gaze settle on the line between sea and sky, still searching for something. She isn't sure whether it's a rescue party or the absence of one that she wants to find. He is here; on this Island, this is where she needs to be for now. Being rescued isn't something that she thinks about – the real world is a place she cannot comprehend. Her life is here now, buried under the mound of earth behind her.
People are moving around and the tide is beginning to move out. It means she's been sitting here longer than she realised and her body shivers. She does not move yet though, simply places the hand in his shirt back to the sand, moving her fingers down, off the sand, back up half way, onto the sand and then across. Her left and right index fingers repeat the movement, still battling against the receding waves.
Finally the crosses do not get washed away and a bittersweet smile graces her lips. As pieces of hair blow into her face, salt water spraying onto her cracked lips, Kate remembers him.