Hurley's eyes level him in their honesty, their openness, and he has to look down. Betrayed, he thinks. Shocked, he thinks. Disappointed, he thinks. That's what Hurley is. "Why, dude," he's asking, holding the Mother Mary in his hands, frowning at the untouched baggies of heroin.
Charlie thinks maybe he picked it up because he knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that the promise he gave Claire wasn't his to make. It was God's, or Fate's. Or hell, if Locke was onto something, it was the Island's. It wasn't Charlie's.
II'll bring him back/I it's too simple. It's too cut and dry. It's too certain. He should have said try. II'll try to bring him back/I. That's a promise he can keep, that's the promise he should have made. II'll do my best/I would have been true too. II won't come back until I have him/I would have been the most honest. Because if he hadn't found Aaron? There's no way he would have.
He wouldn't have been able to face Claire ever, ever again. The only thing worse in Charlie's mind than never seeing Claire again is to see those baby blues turned to him in blame. If he closed his eyes he could hear her already. IWhy, Charlie? Why did they do it? Why did they take him? Why didn't you bring him back? You said you would, Charlie! You said you would/I No. There's no way he could have come back. Not ever.
And Charlie thinks maybe he picked up the statue because he knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that if it came to it, this should be his death. This poison, this substance, this thing that brought him here, that left him here to rot. If it weren't for that gray powder poking out of her blue robes, he wouldn't have been here now. He wouldn't have been where he was at all, he wouldn't have been Iwho/I he was at all.
He thinks maybe it's fitting, that he should die by the same stuff he lived for back in London, back in the days of Driveshaft. The thing that cost him his life and gave him whole new one. A sick, twisted, retched disgusting new one. One filled with piss, and shit, and vomit, and orgasms that didn't mean anything, and sweat dripping between his brows in 60-degree weather. He thinks maybe it would have been fitting, to give into it one final time, when he knows it's truly over, when he knows neither he nor Claire will see Aaron again.
Charlie even thinks maybe he picked it up because, somewhere in the back of his head, he thought getting religion back would help them. There was a time, and it really wasn't all that long ago, when he believed in the power of Christ. When he thought Jesus turned water into wine, and caught fish by commanding it to be so. When he thought if he confessed his sins, and really tried to not commit them again, he would go to heaven. There was a time when he actually thought praying did something.
Mostly, though, Charlie thinks probably he picked it up because it was there. Because that's who he is. It's who he was, and it's who he'll always be. A junkie. So he looks up at Hurley, in those hurt big brown eyes, and holds out his hands. "I don't know," he says, and he can feel the fear tightening in on his heart, closing in on his throat. "But I need help, man. I need your help."
And Hurley nods and reaches an arm around him and lays his hand on his shoulder. "Of course, man," Hurley says, and Charlie feels like maybe it's okay for him to break like this. Maybe it's okay for him to fall to pieces, because Hurley will never let him down. Hurley's the strong one here. Hurley can make promises like this. "Yeah. Of course I'll help, Charlie."