A/N: Hey, I know, I Haven't updated on my stories for awhile, but, I have a good reason. Well a good enough reason. I am in the middle of writing a story, independent from FF. I would like a Beta, just someone who will tell me what's wrong with it, things which don't make sense, spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes. Anything like that. It doesn't exactly have a name yet, but I'm calling it Raining for now, as that's a shorted version of the first couple of words. It's not finished, I've only done 7193 words so you can have it when I've finished. It's about murder and cloning and prostitutes, that was my friend's idea. Just email if you would like to be my beta.
In other reasons for me not updating, I'm in my GCSE year and we've still got another week of mocks to get through. Including a whole two days of art.
Disclaimer: As everyone knows, I am not the author of Lost, nothing I have, or own is anything to do with Lost, except the book bad Twin which I brought, £12.99 wish it was cheaper. But never mind. I don't own.
Walking through the Jungle, thinking about her, she fully had rights to the capital letter of her. She was...amazing, incredible, a con as good as him.
Both of them running, from unknown demons in their heads, running from their pasts and from their futures, they had collided, but now…
He couldn't even bring himself to say her name out loud, like saying the names of the dead was somehow bad luck, or a disrespect to their soul.
He said her name in the confines of his own head. At the times when he was consumed by grief, he wanted to jump into the ocean, swim until he got too tired, hey, maybe if he got lucky the sharks would come, put him out of misery. He deserved it. What sort of guy would let a girl like her take his gun. Knowing she would get into trouble, get injured, hurt or worse. Knowing that she would kill, ruin her life once and for all.
He'd killed before, it consumes you, makes you want nothing more than to wrap your hands around their scrawny necks and squeeze, squeeze until the life runs out. That bits terrible, wanting to end their life so much that you stop caring about yours, about all the people who care about you, all the people you care about, you love even. But what comes after, that is much worse, 'cus now its done, it can't ever be undone.
The saying 'What's done is done' too true, all too true.
So he let her, he let her take the gun, and before he could give her some time alone, let her work off some of that steam, The good ole' doc. With his henchmen and women. The genuine Iraqi and the all-too-perfect-not-to-his-liking-Kate, comes bursting in, he had to get to her, knowing what she had done, maybe he could get to her before they did, save her, running through that damned jungle of mystery, lost in daydreams of saving and taking care of his Lucy, didn't even notice the guy coming the other way, Henry, or whatever his real name was.
When got there, saw the carnage. All his fault, everything was his fault. He cried.
The only reason he's not crying now, thinking of Her, dreaming of Her, casting his mind back to that dreadful time. Is 'cus he's run out, he had never believed the people who said, they ran out of tears. But now, he's one of them.
After the boats came, everybody leaving, Jackie-boy came, told him to go, tried to order him even, like he ever did something jack wanted. Jack said go home, little did he realise.
'Cus the island was home, and it would be forever and always with her cross sitting in that graveyard.
Both running, two different reasons.
R&R people.
Email me if you'd like to be my beta on Raining. Thanks.