Lost belongs to JJ Abrams and crew, I'm just borrowing for some non-profit fun. Kate thinks back on her long history of running. Spoilers for "Born to Run". Enjoy.

Lost – Running
By Mystic
May 20th 2005

I run. It's what I do. What I've always done for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I can see my stuff packed away in the pink Hello Kitty bag someone bought me for my fifth birthday. I was only scared of my teeth rotting. Momma always said your teeth would rot if you didn't brush them. She didn't brush hers when she was younger and they rotted. It was why her smile was crooked and her adult teeth had a yellow tinge to them. Maybe it was the smoking. When you're little, you don't question the things your parents tell you.

I packed my Hello Kitty toothbrush first, then toothpaste – the kind that tastes like mint – and I tossed in some clothes and food. And I ran. I couldn't see where I was going in the dark, so I had my Transformers flashlight. Really, it was just an old flashlight I found in the shed that I'd adorned with Transformer stickers. They were worn from my sweaty dirty hands rubbing against them whenever I snuck out at night. The light bobbed about on the gravel road. I didn't even reach the fence that guarded our farm.

Tom stopped me at the tree. He told me it wasn't a good idea. I showed him my shiner, but he didn't budge. Said if I took another step, he'd call my dad. So he helped me unpack and asked why I stole my parent's toothpaste. I told him mine tasted like gum and made me want to vomit. Never understood gum flavored toothpaste, not even twenty some odd years later.

It wasn't the first time I ran away. I did it at least twice a year and every time Tom knew. I told him once he was psychic; he said he just always saw the flashlight bobbing up and down the road from his window. I told him he was a stalker then, because I always left in the middle of the night, when I knew my parents were sleeping. During one of these fights, he kissed me for the first time for real. No peck on the cheek or lips, no squirming and jokes about how gross kissing was. He slipped his tongue into my mouth and I felt my stomach flip over.

It was the first time Tom touched my hair where he didn't pull it, but ran his fingers through it. He smiled when his knuckles got caught in a knot and he pulled away, his cheeks red and smoke puffing out of his mouth. It was cold and I shivered, looking up at him tentatively, scared even, only, I don't get scared. I got nervous. I ran. I went straight home and threw my Hello Kitty bag in the closet and scrawled under the bed and went to sleep. It wasn't the first time I slept under the bed. In the morning momma called me silly and we went down to feed the pigs and get dirty.

The night I found myself wandering down the road, my cheeks soaked with tears, my hands held out in front of me, bloody and bruised, Tom stopped me. I couldn't tell him what happened; I wasn't even sure I remembered it myself. But I had to run. So I did. I told him no one would understand. I told him my mother never knew. I told him I'd come home one day. I lied. It's what I do. So I lied and I ran and I promised I'd never go back. I couldn't.

Tom wrote me wherever I told him to. He kept me up to date. He asked me to come home. He told me he'd help. Every letter was the same. And then he told me my mother was dying. There was no stopping it. I had to say good bye. Tom seemed surprised. Don't think he figured I'd come home. Home. I've always been afraid of that word, ever since the day I ran away from it for good.

He arranged the meeting and I stood around a corner listening to his voice. He was never a good liar, so he didn't even try. He said something about his office; I could see my mother lying on that bed. She was breathing softly, sleeping and her eyes had gone gaunt, her cheeks seemed thin and pale. I watched her face. Her eyes widen with fear. Fear of me. My heart ripped in my chest and I ran. Into Tom. And he died because he wouldn't get the fuck out of the car.

The fire burst brighter after Sawyer left. He said I cornered him. I disagreed, but I understood. He wanted on that boat -- off this island -- just the same as I did. I threw myself in the sand and pulled the toy plane out of my bag. I let myself cry because I missed Tom. I missed my mom and I missed being normal. I missed being the kid who dreamed of running away to a better life, not the woman who ran constantly where nothing got better.

"Hey." It was Jack and he was standing still, as if he'd been there a while. I wondered if he heard my conversation with Sawyer. I wondered if he knew what went on at the beach. That everyone hated me now. That everyone knew what we'd spent so long keeping secret.

I let myself look at him, even though my eyes are red and my lips are trembling. He looks away quickly, almost seeming ashamed, like it was his fault. I want to tell him it's not his fault. It was all my fault. He just kept my secret, and not even the one that alarms most people. If he knew the length of my rap sheet or the extent of the damage I've left in my wake, he'd be far far from here.

"So I heard…" he trails, shifting in the sand. His eyebrows crease and he stares at the sand, his hands going to his waist in that awkward nervous stance he has.

"Everyone knows." I let the words hang a moment. "It's ok, Jack. They would have figured it out eventually."

"I was hoping it'd have been from me, not Sawyer."

I smile, picking up a large log and poking my bonfire with it. "You were going to tell everyone?" I ask, raising an eyebrow curiously. He grins, thinking I don't see it.

Then he looks at me again and takes a few steps closer. He shrugs. "I just figured it wouldn't go down this way."

"Sawyer had his reasons."

"There's no reason good enough to corner you like that. He had no proof you poisoned Michael…"

"I didn't," I interrupt quickly.

"I know," he says seriously. We're silent again. I've always hated awkward silences. They make me anxious. I feel the wing of the plane digging into the skin of my hand and I put it down on top of my bag, looking at it for a moment before glancing up at him.

"His name was Tom. We'd been friends since we were kids."

"Did you kill him?" He stared, his eyes more curious than accusing. It was surprising to me how demanding he'd become. He used to fish for answers, now he just bluntly asked. But I appreciated it.

I shook my head, then I nodded it. "I was being chased. I told him to go, but he didn't. They shot at me; they hit him." It's there again, that lump in the bottom of my throat that didn't go away, even when I swallowed. And it came with a pain in my chest, like a heart attack, but it's just the guilt and anger and sadness bubbling inside of me. Jack sits next to me and I feel his arm land heavy on my shoulder, pulling me into his chest. It makes all the feelings shake in my chest and I wince against it, and then sob. I don't like to cry in front of people.

I hate feeling weak.

He kisses my hair, rubs my shoulder and then presses his cheek against my head as I convulse with the tears I wish would stop falling. He's got my hand now, just holding it. It reminds me of a night a long time ago, sitting under a tree showing off a newly broken arm and a bright white cast. Tom sucked his teeth and told me it was cool. He tried to make me feel better. He did. We made plans to get it dirty the very next day and we did, playing in the mud of the field behind his house.

Jack raises my chin when I stop crying. He smiles down at me. It's his comforting smile, the one that was just a tad bit flirty and makes me smirk back. "You good now?" There's a hint of laughter on his voice that makes my cheeks burn.

"Depends, if I'm good, are you going back to the caves?"

He looks up at the dark sky and shakes his head. "Nah, been a while since I spent the night on the beach."

Jack pulls me closer and I lay my head on his shoulder, letting him hold me. I try to remember when the last time I trusted someone was. I try to remember the only person I ever trusted. His bright eyes smile in my memories and I can hear him laughing on the tape. At eleven, we didn't know what would happen in our lives. At twenty seven, I still didn't know.

Finis