God damn it, that smell.
Suddenly it was dark. How the hell long had he been sitting here? There was a terrible, tearing pain in his body, but he could not identify its point of origin. He looked down, groaning as a cramp seared through his neck. Catching himself from toppling over into the grainy sand, he leaned back against... what the hell was that behind him, anyway? He turned his head, careful not to stretch his muscles at the wrong angle. The silver-brown bark of the tree came into his focus. Oh yeah.
Immediately, uncaring for his neck now, he jerked his head downward to look down his arm. Damn it. Finally his eyes settled on his hand. Little bits of sand clung to it, sometimes in scattered sprinklings, sometimes in clumps and patches, all displaying a dreadful shade of scarlet. Trying not to wince, he opened his palm, glaring at it. Un-creasing the thick flesh allowed more sand to flood into the oddly-patterned cuts. Breathing in deeply, Sawyer leaned back, hitting his head hard on the tree trunk. Something was missing.
He lifted his hand, turning his eyes to the indention in the sand where it had been. More little red clumps of sand. It was gone. The damn pinecone was gone. Suddenly he was aware of the smell again. Acidic, but rainy and mild all at once. He leaned back again, letting his hand drop to its former resting place. If sorrow had a smell, it would smell like that stupid potpourri. It smelled good now. When he was a little boy, it had smelled-- he found himself shivering, almost retching.
Disgusted, he looked out across the beach. There was no sign he'd been followed. The tents and any other sign of the camp were completely out of sight. The ground beneath him was still damp, but now it was hard to see anything but the pale beach, the white stars, the sparkling gray ocean. Something called to him all the way across the gentle rolls of the waves. Whatever ocean that was, a pretty voice was calling his name across it. He rolled his eyes back. It was beautiful. And it was saying his name.
Bewitched, he forced himself to stand, leaning against the tree for support, breathing deeply of the scented air. He opened his eyes. There it was again, whispering, dancing, twirling on the air. He rolled his head against the tree, unable to focus. The owner of that voice must be beautiful. His vision swam before him, unseeing, he staggered out onto the cool, damp shore, looking around. The musical calling of his name stopped. Looking down at his hands, angry at the bloodied one, he doubled over, catching himself by grabbing his own legs.
Have to get away from the tree. Must be that damn smell. It was intoxicating, he couldn't breathe, and it was making that awful burning feeling return to his eyes. That's just the smell, doing that. He struggled to make his way as far away from the tree as he could, before remembering he had left his pack under its sprawling branches. Snorting in irritation, he straightened himself up and found his way back under the tree, falling to his knees in front of the pack.
Sawyer.
He froze, cringing, almost angry, as though he wanted nothing to do with the voice. But damn, it was beautiful. He shook his head, swinging his arms tiredly at his sides, grabbing the pack purposely with his injured hand. Grunting, he heaved it onto his shoulder, gritting his teeth as the rough leather strap bit into his raw skin. The voice sounded again, this time more clearly, its distant, ethereal properties gone. He righted himself, looking around, a hazy light was beginning to show, floating over the beach. The voice bit him, just as leather had done. It was edgier now, still beautiful, but tangible, close.
I'm hallucinatin', he told himself, almost laughing as he looked around for the speaker, careful to maintain his posture and confidence. There was no one there. Shaking his head and scoffing at himself, allowing a small, dimpled smile, he turned to leave the tree's shelter. The golden haze that hovered over the sand was becoming brighter and more pronounced with each minute. Where to go now, where to go? He gazed out past the next tree, forehead creasing, he made it his goal to have entered the jungle by midday. Kicking sand off his feet, he began again, brushing away the sound of the voice as it called once more, bell-like, his name.
Kate walked swiftly, surely he must have heard her. She'd been calling his name all the way down the beach, he had to have heard. She looked down, feeling her eyelashes sweep against her cheeks. He didn't care. She looked up again, briefly, noting the sky's fading darkness, "Sawyer," she called again, trying to balance her voice. Not too loud, that would wake the people back at camp.
She thought she saw movement ahead, not more than a shadow, but she was sure it had been there. Excitedly, she found herself jogging lightly on the sand, her feet not so much as sinking past its crisp top layer. There was a huge tree ahead. Setting her eyes on it, she broke her jog into a run. Tossing the occasional glance at the sea, she almost wondered how, if a million bombs had gone off at once, the beach had not been burned. She shook her head in awe, directing her attention back to the tree, seeking out that running shadow, hopeful she would find it once more.
"Hey man," the slimy, raking voice called, crashing into his ears, making him grimace and stop what he was doing, "how far have you gotten?"
Breathing heavily, a boy of about fifteen shook hair from his face, opening his mouth to speak, but seeming to think better of it, turned away. In his hands was an axe, its handle a deep red, accented with silver lettering. Its curved, dull head glinted in the setting sun as he raised it above his bleached head, "What?" he asked, annoyed, turning to the man who'd addressed him.
"Boy, you gotta learn not to talk to your supervisors like that," the man paused, his great middle shaking with laughter, "Whoo-wee."
The blonde boy nearly threw the axe down on the log at his feet, not bothering to straighten the blow for a clear cut. It hit the wood with a hollow thud that seemed to give the boy satisfaction. He left it there, lodged in the wood, as he wiped his eyes with a bare arm, "What d'you need?" he asked, voice still ringing with anger at the interruption, "sir," he added begrudgingly.
The man just laughed again, rumpled plaid shirt crinkling as he took a step towards the boy, "you really gotta learn some manners, and you need ta' cut the wood right. I can getcha' kicked out of school and this job."
The boy jerked the broad, shining blade out of the log, raising it above his head again, "okay."
"What?" The man leered, revealing rows of jagged, lackluster, gray teeth.
"Yes sir," He said more loudly, bringing the axe down, this time with good aim and positioning, he stopped, peering up at the huge man, "can I sharpen this?"
"You just get back to work boy, I'll come check on you again at seven," he said gleefully, glancing at his watch, "you don't sneak off like I know you been doin'."
"Yes, sir," the boy said again, lifting the metal tool.
"Oh," the man added as an afterthought, "I saw you with that girl last night," his voice oozed at what he seemed to think was the hilarity of all this, "you can't be bringin' girls up to your room and doin' stuff," he chuckled greasily, raising a sweat stained arm to his forehead in mock worry, "I gave you that room. You gotta 'preciate and respect it."
The boy just nodded again, glaring savagely up at the man through his curtains of hair, distracted from his woodchopping.
"Gonna say somethin'?" The man asked expectantly.
"Yes, sir," the boy repeated for the third time, turning back to his work.
He continued to hack away at the wood busily until the man had completely disappeared from sight. He stopped, dropping the axe with a clattering noise. He peered around the side of the sizeable cabin, even grinning a little when he could detect no sign of his boss. Flicking sweat from his face again, he stole away from the lumber pile, and, eventually, away from the lumberyard itself. In the disappearing daylight, he sneaked stealthily into the nearby woods, forcing his eyes to pick out familiar landmarks. There was the large, broken branch, split in two and burned by the most recent storm. It must have been hit by lightning. And here was the beginning of the rocky, pebble-bank, only a little further. /i
He knew where he was going, now. At first, it had been a hopeless, pointless adventure, just to get away, but now he knew. The sun was up now, but it wasn't high enough in the sky to burn his back as it had yesterday. His hand stung now, though, and he was suddenly overcome with an unbearable urge to clean it off. There was water in his pack, he realized, tossing it down and turning around shortly, just to see if someone was... following him. He didn't want that, not a single bone or fiber in his body had any desire to be followed, and it would remain that way. Looking back around, he noticed the slow-moving ocean, its white-crested, softly moving waves. Another opportunity for punishment.
Leaving the pack where he'd dropped it, he made his way proudly to the very edge of the shore, so that the waves washed just over the laces of his grubby sneakers. Kneeling, he held his hands inches above the water, almost managing to ignore the sting of the sea spray on his cuts. He turned his hands over, surveying the intricate pattern of tree-bark slices on his palm. Suddenly, the next wave broke on the shore, wetting his fingertips. He withdrew his hands, digging his feet into the sand before plunging the bleeding one into the salty, slowly warming water, "AAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGHHH."
An awful, tearing cry of pain found Kate's ears. Sawyer. She had given up on calling his name almost an hour ago, and now, as she stumbled into the shade of the big tree, she looked around for him frantically. Whatever it was, she could tell instantly, he had done it to himself. Her heart was in her mouth. Had he really hurt himself? She bit into her lip hesitantly, breathing in to compose herself. It smelled oddly like gunpowder, or perhaps gasoline under the tree, and she wanted nothing more than to get away from it. Why had she stopped here, anyway? She looked down, leaning a hand against the trunk. Breathes returning to normal something caught her eye; there were footprints in the sand. Yes, he had been here.
Closely following the tracks, she gratefully left the shade and strange smells of the tree, reassuring herself as she went along, he always did cry at nothing. It was probably nothing. At last, she came upon a stop in the tracks. She halted, placing her hands on her hips, clicking her teeth together in frustration and puzzlement, they seemed to have gone into the water.
He slid down to a sitting position on the pebble-shore, kicking off his shoes and allowing bare feet to fall into the dark, slowly moving stream. Today was the day. No more nightmares, nothing. The time was now. Stretching his arms, he reached into the pocket of his jeans, drawing out an aged, crumpled sheet of paper. An expression of extreme sadness and concern finding his face, he poured over the thing, carefully reading each and every penciled word.
When he was done, he tucked the letter, very carefully, back into his pocket. Sighing, reached his hand into the other pocket, taking it out with a small, plastic black lighter and a box of cigarettes held tightly in his fingers. He flicked the paper lid of the carton open, plucking a cigarette from it. With a sort of meaningful slowness, he placed it between his lips, clicking the turn-wheel on the lighter to strike a flame. The small blue and orange flame sprang into life, illuminating his face. He lifted it to the end of the cigarette, feeling its warmth on his face in the cool night air. He closed the lighter, placing it back in his pocket as he inhaled of the cigarette's pungent, stale smoke. Feeling a great sense of relief as the smoke caressed, velvet-like the insides of his lungs, he breathed out.
It didn't feel as good as usual, he realized, suddenly wanting to cough and vomit all at once. Dejectedly, he tapped ashes off the end of the cigarette, tossing it carelessly into the little brook. He could do it. Right now. What was left, right? He looked down into the water, unable to see his reflection, no matter how hard he tried. He was never going to find the guy. It wasn't going to change.
Hardly able to contain himself, he leaned over the stream, lowering his face above its surface, staring into it, all the way through to the rough, flat-rocked bottom. Now. He plunged his face into its blackening depths, keeping his eyes open as they made contact with the icy water.
He breathed out, watching in quiet fascination as the shining bubbles floated to the surface of the shallow river. Now he needed to breathe back in. Wrinkling his brow, he opened his mouth, slowly drawing water in. An unbelievable sense of self-hatred filled him at the terror that stabbed at his heart as his lungs began to wet. He banished it, feeling his hands relax as his lungs tightened.
A terrific, vice-like grip seized his neck and the collar of his shirt, dragging him out of the water as colored stars erupted before his eyes.
"I knew you was gonna' try that 'ventually. You cain't do that, boy. You jus' lost yerself a job," the voice sneered.
And then, darkness.
Kate shook her head, looking away from the place where the now-buried tracks had been. They didn't go into the water, she noticed with relief. So he didn't drown. They turned away, and went in a diagonal line away from the sea, into the jungle. Great. Heart throbbing all over again, she found herself running, not jogging, along the line of the tracks. You know what? I don't care if you hate me, she thought, focusing eyes forward, I am NOT letting you run off into the woods to die. She ran on, not even knowing if that's what he meant to do. It didn't matter, if there was a chance, she should be worried.
There was the outer fringe of the jungle trees. He found himself smiling. It was so close, he realized, breaking through the dark green of it, stepping into the humid air inside the cage of brush. Only a little ways, no more than an hour, and he would be there. He sent his eyes toward the large, sheer, vine-covered cliff. He had been here before, been here to open that silver case. Kate's silver case. His heart stopped for a minute, it was the first time he'd thought of her all day. Ashamed of himself for forgetting her, he continued on his way through the deep green vegetation with clumsy steps, trying, in spite of himself, to shake her from his thoughts. He stared again at the bluff. They were never going to get off this place.
Kate broke the cover of the trees now, out of breath. She wondered, vainly, if Sawyer wanted to be found, the way she had when she'd run away. Probably not. She didn't care, he was going to hurt himself, she could feel it. As she dashed through the trees, she straightened the bandage on her head, looking around for any sign of him.
Presently, Sawyer found himself stumbling at the base of the cliff, trying to secure his feet on the slippery, mossy rocks at its foot. Just get to the top. You can clear your head there. As he scrambled up the slope, he found it increasingly hard to focus, and was incredibly thankful when the ground finally leveled out. Somewhat.
She looked uncomfortably up at him, not wanting to speak. First he says he doesn't give a damn, that he won't help her. And now, he's standing out here, right beside her. She averted her eyes, looking out at the ocean instead, not wanting to acknowledge his presence. Ignoring him would work just fine.
Sawyer seemed to be thinking along the same lines, he, too, was staring out at the vast, windswept blue. He himself was unsure of why he was standing there. Was it the words that so often caught in his throat? They'd been uncomfortable around each other lately. If he meant to say something, he realized, he ought to do it fast. It was only a matter of time before Jack sent for him, and had him brought back to the hatch. There was no way to fight that. Besides, he was still getting dizzy spells every now and then. Or maybe he was here to tell her what he could not when she had asked the favor of him. Just a simple favor. Take care of me. He turned his head, repulsed, not only at himself, but at her, too. She knew him better than that. And what was with her trying to make him face himself? He couldn't take care of anything. She knew that.
"You aren't supposed to be out here," Kate said finally, measuring her words.
"I know," Sawyer answered slowly, keeping his voice steady, "I needed some air."
"Oh," Kate said, shaking her head in disapproval, "Jack'll be mad."
Sawyer snorted sarcastically, "Yes, and...?" he paused, wondering why the hell she was avoiding exactly what he knew was on both of their minds, "I really couldn't give less of a damn about the doctor."
"Right," Kate said, thinking, as she spoke, of Jack, "well, I could."
Sawyer's heart sank for an instant, but only just. He stopped himself before the feeling could take over, killing it before it could invade his body, "Yeah, I know," he said simply, "You hate me now, Freckles?" It sounded like an awfully stupid question, now that he'd said it. Of course she'd say, 'yes'. Or probably nothing at all. He looked down at the top of her head.
She let out a tiny hissing noise from between her teeth, "Yeah, whatever," she said, not really wanting to utter the words, but still feeling betrayed by how he'd answered her need for a favor, "You know..." she began, almost afraid to say more. This would spoil something, for sure.
"What?" He asked, dragging the word out with an over exaggerated sigh.
"I really do need help," she said, her voice gaining strength as she spoke, the words lifting a weight off her shoulders, "and if you want to know why I..." her voice had risen to a shrill sort of squeal, "If you want to know why I care about Jack and not--" she stopped, tripping on the words. How can I say that? It's not true. She rested her face in her hands, careful that he would not see the gesture from his vantage point. She cared about both of them.
"Yeah," he said, much better at disguising the hurt in his voice than she, "I know why you don't care about me," he said, almost as though he was speaking to himself, "I'm just that old bastard who ruins everything you do with the doctor," he began, trying to think of what to say next. What would insult her most?
Kate said nothing. She just sat, head in her hands. Never should have asked him to begin with, she thought with a pang. She had known, she admitted reluctantly, she had known all along that he would turn her away. However much she'd cared all this time, he hadn't. It was plain to see. It almost insulted her. She could read him so well, but somehow she couldn't really tell what he was thinking when it came to opinions of her.
"Whatever," he laughed, repeating her, "you don't want help from me anyway," he turned, setting off down the beach, "I'm goin' back to the hatch."
"Alright," Kate called, struggling to end her silence, gathering the courage to stand, "Just want you to know, Sawyer..."
He didn't stop walking. He just kept moving, seeming not to notice her. She knew better. He was listening.
"Just want you to know that one day you'll want the company," she stepped forward bravely, thinking that maybe, maybe somehow this would change his mind, "you killed a man. You can't just be alone with your guilt." The words sounded aimless, idiotic. This was going nowhere.
He didn't turn his head, but as Kate suspected, he had heard. At first, in a split-second, the words had stung him, boring a little hole in the skin of his chest, dangerously close to his heart. He felt weak. Yeah, he'd killed a man. He scowled. Didn't mean he had to protect her. Of all people, she could take care of herself. Hunching over against a slight breeze, he controlled the urge to look back over his shoulder at her. That would just show that he cared.
Finally, he was here. He looked out across the edge of the cliff, stepping toward it. He looked down its flat face, it was a long way down. He slouched into a sitting position, holding onto one of the vines that hung from the jungle's canopy of green leaves. Allowing his legs to dangle loosely off the edge of the cliff, he managed a little smile as the jagged ledge cut into his thighs. For the first time in a while, pain felt good again. It had become a routine, he realized distractedly, finding his hand straying to his pocket. Before he could stop himself, his hand had closed around the paper. He knew it by heart, but still, he removed it from the recesses of his jeans, unfolding it, coveting it, reading it over and over as he had always done. It would work out this time. They weren't getting off this island, so what was the use? There was no filthy supervisor to stop him.
He stood again, still clutching the slippery vine. Wholly unaware of the skittering sounds of feet on the mossy rocks he had just climbed, he felt his hand letting go of the vine. But then it sounded again, that voice.
"Sawyer!"