Disclaimer: If I owned it, the men would be shirtless more often. ;) Just a little thing that came to me out of nowhere. I don't like it much, but maybe you will. Reviiiiiew!
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"If we can't live together...we're going to die alone."
Jack's words rang through the camp, and a shocked silence settled over the remaining survivors. Shock, because someone had said the words, the ones they'd all been treading lightly over, avoiding. That morning, with the drowning...they had to face the fact that death was very much still a threat. That unlike Locke, this woman was not going to make a miraculous return. Mostly, though, shock because it was true.
They could band together, compromise, work as a team, some sort of makeshift family unit for each other, or they could try every man for himself, and die one by one, alone.
The worst way to die, in his opinion.
Course, in the end, there's no way to die but alone, Charlie thought, pulling the arms of his black hoodie down over his hands, and kicking at the sand. No one goes with you, no one holds your hand as you find out that there is no pearly gate, no heaven.
Or maybe there was. Not like he'd ever get to find out, that much he knew for certain.
Jack was still talking as he slipped away, past the warm glow of the fire they had in the middle of the grounds. Past the light and back into the shadows, where he belonged.
He knew he should stay, listen to their "leader" give his big speech, and tell everyone just what they needed to hear, but he bloody well knew it already.
They weren't getting rescued.
At least, not any time soon. Maybe not ever.
So what would they do? Band together like some happy camping party and try to survive a tropical island with all numbers and manners of beasties lurking out in the dark. Boars, polar bears, faceless creatures that ripped people to shreds and left them eviscerated in the trees. Not to mention themselves.
People blaming themselves for the woman who drowned, blowing up at each other. Hell, there'd almost been a riot over the lost water. The precious life source, in great demand, was missing, and they were willing to do whatever to get it back, if that meant crucifying that good ol' boy....hell was his name, anyway? Boone, right?
And him.
Taking a seat in the cool sand, Charlie wiggled his toes, feeling the lump just where it should be, comforting, but so tempting it made him grind his teeth, dig nails into his palms.
He couldn't help but feel it was partially his fault, too. Jack thought he was at fault, because he chose to save one life over another. Boone thought it was his fault for not swimming harder, faster, longer, though he tried to play it off by blaming the doctor.
What had he done? Gone running to get the Doc, and stood pointing on the shore like the stupid git he was, unable to do more, because he couldn't swim.
He'd said it himself only a day before...England was an island. Why would he not know how to swim? Wasn't that somehow important?
Sure it was, because had he known how to swim, he could've helped. Maybe not made it to the woman, no, but he could've grabbed Boone, let Jack go for the lady. If only he swam.
So insignificant at home, so very significant here.
Sniffling, Charlie decided to mope some more.
It was really all he was good at out here. He wasn't fast or strong, or smart or anything anyone else was. All he was good for was taking up space, being a burden, sitting on shorelines feeling sorry for himself, and indulging in some self-satisfying habit that would kill him someday, if it got the chance.
Another few days, and the stares would start. The whispers. Wondering just what was wrong with that little guy, the failed rocker. Why was he shaking, siezing, sweating and jonesing, what the fuck was wrong with him?
He could end it now, either way.
He had enough left for an overdose, he was sure. Snort it all now, down every last speck, and spend a few very happy last moments before it went south.
Or he could dump it out, mix it with sand, wash it away in the ocean. Face his problems head on, maybe talk to Jack, or Kate, someone. Fix things as much as he could.
The shaking started, and the cold sweat at the base of his spine, and he knew he'd do neither one. He'd go on as he was doing now, until something forced him to change that pattern, for the better, or the worse.
It was all he could do, right?
Standing, he brushed the sand off his pant legs.
Maybe Claire was thirsty, or lonely. Maybe Kate and Sayid needed help planning something. Hell, he'd even volunteer to walk that kid's bloody dog. Anything to feel more useful. Anything to stop feeling useless.
"The rest of you contribute however you can."
Wasn't that what Jack said? Something to that effect. He didn't know what he could do...but he'd do it. That'd hold off the stares for a while, at least. Make him feel better, too.
When in doubt, follow the fearless leader, right?
Problem was, Charlie was afraid.
He was very, very afraid.