Disclaimer: I don't own Lost and right now I really don't want to.
Spoilers: Up to Abandoned
A/N: I had to.
He has no memory of the days that followed her death.
If he closes his eyes and tries to remember he sees the shelter on the beach, the one they shared for only one night, and her on the pallet they slept on, bloodied and pallid, rain and blood seeping into one another on (his hands) the sand.
He envisions himself kneeling at her side, wiping away the rain, cradling her hand, comforting what remained and mourning what had been lost. Yet whether any of his vision is truthful he doubts he will ever know, as it all rings of dream more than memory, making his heart ache with that distant longing he has had to learn to endure in the long years since her passing.
He is sure that they buried her, between Boone's old grave and the one they would make for Sawyer only days later. He thinks that Sun may have placed flowers on her grave; crimson orchids that clashed terribly with everything around them. He thinks Claire may have cried and that Aaron had to be taken away by Charlie who may have built the cross that now stands in a perfect row with all the others.
He sometimes thinks he can remember attacking Jack, demanding he do something to help her, though he is almost certain that she had been gone long before they walked back into camp (one of the few things he can make out in the haze of it all).
What he remembers is red.
(Her life spilling out onto the jungle floor, crimson petals on the grave no one else visits)
He remembers the taste of grief and rage mingling into one on his tongue and the sight of scarlet dripping from the bullet wound that tore through the other woman, her murder, the steady flow that created waterfalls upon the tree roots.
All he can remember is the bitter satisfaction of red when he pulled the trigger.
End
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