Author's Notes: LOST is not owned by me. If it was, Desmond would be in it more.
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Tears weren't supposed to hurt. They were supposed to heal wounds. Or was that time? He couldn't remember. It was strange though how he had too much of one thing and not enough of the other. He had the tears to cry, but couldn't truly release his emotions thanks to the clock. The timer. The code. The button. Maybe if he had one more minute he'd be fine, he'd be able to find peace, or at least a fake peace that he could deal with until it all became too much for him to handle again. But he'd never know time that wasn't in increments of 108 minutes. One hour and forty-eight minutes. That was what his life had come down to. If you could call what he had down here a life. Which he didn't.
Wiping his face, he marveled at how small the drops were. He half expected shards of glass to be coming out of them or part of his soul to be in each minute drop of water. But no, they were clear, as if all the pain, doubt and fear in his soul were white and pure instead of heavy and dark. Sometimes in the middle of doing things he could actually feel the weight of those feelings, dragging along with him, reminding him at odd times during the day what was truly going on. He was surprised every morning as he stepped on the scale that it didn't add an extra fifty pounds.
Wasn't he supposed to feel better after all this that he had done? He had been at it for more than half an hour and felt the same, if not worse. What was it that others always said? Oh yes, "get it out of your system". He never did understand that. How do you get it out? This obviously was doing nothing, just making his eyes sore and his face wet. If it was doing anything, it was making him crazier than he already had been. He closed his eyes, and right there he could still feel it, all the hopelessness, fear, loss, doubt and pain that was still inside. And what did he have to show for it? Nothing. This damned station that did nothing but increase those feelings. How was he to get it out? Why would he want to? Wouldn't it just leave a bigger space for the even worse feelings that were soon to come to fill up? Shaking his head, he ran his hands through his hair, thinking, wondering when the last time he had done this. When he had become true to himself, when he had actually faced what was going on inside him. He honestly couldn't remember. Part of him wondered why he faked acting like things were normal. That playing a record and washing dishes in between shifts at the computer were considered normal. It was habit, he guessed, a habit that continued even when no one was around. Kelvin was gone; no one was here to judge him, to tell him to cheer up or else. He had no real reason to keep it inside him and yet, he chose to. Because he knew that if he let even a small portion of it out, it would overwhelm him. It would take control and never let him free. So how was he to fight it from taking control now? He had gone and let the beast out, only to let it roam free and claim his mind for its own.
Slamming his fists onto the table, he let out a sob that could only be described as heart wrenching. Gasping for air, he looked to the ceiling, trying to fight the feelings aside. This was why he faked it for every second of every day. This was why he never thought about anything other then the damned computer because if he strayed just a hair off course, he would wind up here. Here next to a bottle of booze and a gun. His eyes straying to the gun, he reached over and picked it up. It felt warm between his hands, like it was made of chocolate or licorice. If he positioned himself in the right way, he could make a mark just like Radzinski. Maybe he could even make a better one. One that was unique and just screamed that Desmond David Hume had… He stood up. No, he wasn't that far. But would he get there? How many more shifts would it take before the stopping thought of 'no' fell silent?
Maybe you were supposed to have a goal. After you did the first step of crying until you felt weak inside, you were to have a goal for something. But what goal did he have that was possible? Everything he wanted was impossible. He wanted to leave. He wanted to have more than an hour and forty-eight minutes to himself. He wanted to know the difference between Monday and Tuesday. He wanted to sleep a night through without nightmares, without hitting his head on the ceiling as he was awoken by the alarm. But most of all, beyond all of that, he wanted to find Penny and …
The beeping started the easy sound that had a pause between each one as if to say, "Breathe". Closing his eyes as he seated himself back down, he tried to correct himself, to pick himself back up from where he had fallen so that he could do his duty. Inhaling slowly, he almost cringed as the taste of those feelings went into him. They floated around the Swan Station like the plague and no matter what he did; he could never get rid of them. Exhaling, his mind wondered to the next shift of one hour and forty-eight minutes. Would he continue the charade of nothing being the matter? Would he resume the position he had now, head down on the table, arms stretched out as if begging to be picked up, to be saved from drowning? Standing to make his way to the computer, he seated himself at it. Raising a hand to enter the code and press 'execute' he leaned back in the chair as the counter flipped its way back to read 108.
The next shift had started.
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Author's Notes: Please review!