Title: Witch
Author: Renna, lj userrennaesprit
Rating: R for some strong language and sex with teenage girl
Pairing: Desmond/Alex, hints of Ben/Juliet
Spoilers: general spoilers to all three seasons
Status: part 1 of (?)
Summary: The loneliness kills. In every one hundred eight minutes something dies. Something in my heart, something in my soul. And it's inevitable and irreversible process.
Disclaimer: not mine
Special thanks to Needle and Fadingspark , my wonderful betas. You know how much I love you
All God's children needs travelling shoes
Drive your problems from here
All good people read good books
Now your conscience is clear
Now your conscience is clear
In the morning, when I wipe my brow
Wipe the miles away
I like to think that I can be so willed
And never do what you say
And never do what you say
Tanita Tikaram "Twist In My Sobriety"
You're smiling at me from the old dull photo. You were so happy, so happy and even now I remember how happy I was too.
You loved me. Maybe, maybe it was so. And I love you, there's no doubt. That's true, that's certainly true. But do not wait for me anymore. You will never want to see what I've become.
Sometimes I want to tear this photo to pieces …
In moments of despair people pray to God. During these moments of despair people long for each other, search for help and support. During these moments of despair people search for rescue in many respects, but none of these simple, habitual and normal means were accessible to me. None.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years … Tick-tock, tick-tock, one hundred eight minutes plus one hundred eight minutes plus one hundred eight plus one hundred eight… I'm sleeping, I'm awaking, I'm sleeping, I'm reading, I'm sleeping, I'm eating, I'm training, I'm sleeping … all in one hundred eight minutes. One hundred eight minutes for all. Then a break. And than again, all starts again. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Days are similar, from one to another – twins. What's the date today? What's the day today? Is it Monday or Friday? Is it Tuesday or Saturday?
Who knows, who knows… Not me, that's the point.
In Scotland it must be winter now. If I close my eyes I can to picture the snow. It's white, virgin white and pure and shining under the cold January sun. I am able to picture the daring boys throwing snowballs; reddened from the frost, in multi-coloured jackets and cheerful caps. Whiteness and colorfulness.
"Have you ever seen a snow, Radzinsky?" I'm asking. He's silent. I secretly would've been surprised if he had answered. I think he knew the snow well, before ending up here. He knew it, 'cause he's probably from Russia. In his strange Russia there would be a lot of snow. In his strange far Russia, where on the streets are sleeping snow polar bears who go and play on balalaikas. In his strange Russia, where all days begin with a bottle of vodka. In his far Russia … well, I don't really know much about his strange Russia.
"Could you ever imagine that you would end up stuck here, in the damn jungle?" I'm asking again. And again. And Radzinsky isn't answering and he won't answer, 'cause he doesn't even hear my screams. I just need to talk to someone. I just need… or I'll lose my mind.
If I already haven't.
Days, hours, minutes, seconds.
The squeak of the alarm rushes into my restless dreams and intertwines in them, mixes up with my strange, freakin' dreams in which my past life alternates with that nightmare. The squeak of the alarm is an awful sound with which I shudder, involuntarily clamping my hands to ears. I don't want to hear this vile squeak anymore, I don't want to look at the clock, I don't want to bang on keys, hoping, that now, right now, I can enter a code. I don't want to whisper the numbers don't want to afraid, afraid… To forget the numbers? Well, I'll never forget it.
Never.
I want to sleep, to sleep in normal way as all people do. Eight hours per day, maybe from eleven p.m. till seven a.m. I want to watch the evening news break, I want to know, what has occurred in England today. I want to wake up at seven - and maybe not alone – I want to drink coffee and eat toast, maybe with some jam. I want to have breakfast before going for a work.
I want to walk in the park on Sundays. I want to sit on a bench near the pond and feed the ducks. I want to feel the rain, such familiar and such habitual English rain, drizzling long, long, long. I want a break of this fucking hot sun, burning like a searing hot glass ball. I want it to die someday.
My head is screaming. Air in the hatch is hot and heavy and heady. All around my eyes is blurring, all my thoughts are confused, I feel sick, sick again, and I can't seem to recover in any way.
I haven't sleep for hundreds of nights.
"Tell me, Radzinsky, was Calvin always the same motherfucking son of bitch? Or was it you, you Radzinsky, who'd fuck Calvin in the way he fucked me? You told him that strange fairy tale and brought him here, to this fucking hatch? You told him that he's rescuing the world every hundred eight minutes? Why don't you answer? Am I wrong?"
I never knew Radzinsky. And wouldn't like to know, never would like to know. But for many fucking long months he is the only person I can talk to. So I sit down and look up and speak. Doesn't matter what about – I just speak.
The day Radzinsky answers me, I will finally know that I've lost my mind.
The loneliness kills. Every one hundred eight minutes something dies. Something in my heart, something in my soul. And it's inevitable and irreversible process.
I dream about that day, when I'll hear a voice. A human voice. Not my own and not an echo of my own. A voice of another human.
The hostiles. Calvin spoke about the hostiles on this island, so many of them. But I haven't saw anybody, I saw none of them. I think Calvin lied. There's nobody here but me.
I was wandering the island, vainly hoping to meet someone. I was risking probably, six billion lives only to be convinced, that I'm alone here. Every time I did leave, I'd end up rushing into the hatch, breathing heavily, and falling into the chair, entering the code with hasty, shivering hands. Always in the last minute, in the last seconds.
And so that was that – day after day, one hundred eight minutes after one hundred eight minutes. Again, again and again – the whole fucking time.
But then one day I saw her.