Chapter 3 - Follow the Footprints
9/10/5

Jack's words echoed down the valley to her, this natural amplifier created by the curved walls of rock. He shouted her name once more, and she knew the volume and intensity of the word related his concern and confusion; but to Kate, with tears streaming and wishing she could start her life over, it sounded like an accusation.

Her bare feet pounded into the solid mass of ground, the mud and thousand years of compacted soil and dead vegetation, skeletons and skin cells. Her tears fell and her vision blurred, until she was running blind; but she didn't care, cared only that she must save Jack from her herself, from what she was afraid she might still be capable of. Blind and bloodied, Kate sank into those things she didn't want to remember, those memories which dug like daggers into her heart; tortured herself with them, because anything was better than remembering the distress and bewilderment on Jack's face as she pulled away.

He hit her. Wasn't it funny how pain keeps you waiting? That millisecond of time between the stimulus and her body's reaction to it; she could imagine the reverberation of the impact shooting up her sensory nerves and back down again, keeping her waiting. Like stubbing her big toe on her eighth birthday, the pleasure of being the centre of attention and ripping colourful paper from meaningless gifts suddenly stamped on, and she had howled before the pain had even arrived. Kate swayed with the impact, and finally her nerves seemed to catch up with the situation. Her cheek grew warm, unpleasantly so, felt as though it was on fire; but the physical ache meant nothing to her. She did not cry, did not react; just sat there in shock and terror. This was the man she had just given herself to, had allowed to be the first to see her bare flesh, invade her body. He had taken her too roughly, not stopped when she winced, but just forced himself further inside. She was dry, felt stretched and assaulted; had realised in a flash as he pounded above her and his ragged breath came in putrid waves over her, that he didn't love her at all. She was a piece of flesh, an unused prize, a mere hole he could use and rub raw.

He had hit her. She was still naked before him, spots of fresh virgin blood mixing with his cum on the sheets, staining them. She felt dirty, hollow, empty. This wasn't how it was supposed to be; this wasn't the fairytale picture he had painted out for her. Where were the fresh sheets, the gentle hands, the curling up together afterwards? He was shouting at her but his words wouldn't register; Kate sat curled upon the floor and tried to hide herself, those delicate pieces of flesh he had bruised with his touch. She felt fabric tossed towards her, the clothes she would never wear again after tonight. "Get up, slag, my wife's coming!" His words penetrated her, throbbed like the rawness within her. She said nothing, just dragged herself vertical, clawed in the dark for her jeans and pulled them on, not bothering with underwear. He was hiding their brandy glasses, ripping the blemished sheets from the mattress, chucking her sandals carelessly so they collided with her bare back. She glanced at him, this man who not an hour ago had been whispering he loved her as he laid her down and worked her panties from her groin. "Look, it's not my fault I hit you, okay? You asked for it, sitting there like…" He stopped and shook his head, regarded her with something like disgust. "Well, I had fun. Go out the back. Bye Kate."

Something in her head took over, suppressed the sobs and penetrating desperation that engulfed her. Kate dragged the singlet over her chest, hiding the bloody tooth marks engraved into the delicate skin of her areolas. She never met his eyes again, never let him see her pain. She ran from the sickening light of the room; her trembling hands fumbling over the key in the lock of the back door, just as she heard the rush of wind from the front door opening and what she assumed was his wife's voice, filtering through the house. Then the door was open, and closed again behind her, and the bright light of day was upon her, exposing her scars to the world. You never told me you were married, she sobbed, over and over as she scrambled over the back fence. You never told me. He had told her she was beautiful and special and like no-one he had ever met. He bought her flowers and drove her to the coast, whispered there was no rush, just when she was ready. She had bought and swallowed his every word, unused to being called anything positive, used to criticism and being ignored by both parents and peers. You stupid little girl, she told herself. You're a stupid, selfish, useless little girl. And Kate ran and ran, ran away from that room and that house and the memory of him falling atop her as ecstasy reached him and his body gave way, and he broke her. She was fifteen.

She didn't know how long she'd been running for when she finally let her footfalls cease. Fleeing from Jack had merged with running from that horrid moment in her adolescence, and Kate's feet had gone numb a long way back. She had broken through shrubbery, scarred the island with her trail.

In some ways she didn't understand her reasons herself. The whole day had been building up to that moment, had it not? It had been she who had leapt upon Jack, she who had knocked him to the ground, she who had met his eyes. Why? her mind screamed. Why, if somewhere deep in her soul she had known she would get scared and back off; why had she led him on, let him follow her to the edge only to be allowed to fall? She ached for him, ached to let him in to face her demons and quell them. But she was so afraid, so determined not to let her bruise of a life impact upon his; he meant too much to her, a snowflake she didn't want to crush under the weight of her fall. Jack had dedicated his life to saving lives; she had ruined her
own and taken another's. What right did she have to inflict that knowledge upon him?

Kate half sat, half fell, upon the saturated ground. She could see the cuts on the soles of her feet, could feel her own weakness after such exertion, but the pain was nothing compared to the inferno in her heart. She could feel a physical throb each time her heart beat, those snapshots she had carried with her from the golf course to here. Split seconds apart; Jack's face as he said her name and leant gently towards her, the happiness that inched through his features… it was so much for her, too evocative of Tom and his first hesitant teenage steps towards kissing her. And the second photo, Jack's eyes stained with confusion, blaming himself, unsure. She ran through the other memories she carried around with her; Tom, the first time he had told Kate he loved her; their first night together, and how he hadn't judged her when she had told him about her first time. She saw her own mother screaming for protection at the sight of her daughter, the police car blocking the exit, considered for the millionth time why she'd rammed the gates, why she hadn't realised they'd shoot. She saw Tom, still warm and pink cheeked, beside her in the car; with blood soaking through his shirt to the foreign, outside world, and knowing instantly that she had killed him. Oh, she hadn't pulled the trigger, she hadn't fired the bullet. But she had killed him. After all, she was Kate Austin; she'd already Smurfed up her life beyond repair, on the run, ever on the run. Why not do the final deed? Why not spread the caesar salad and blood and horror a little further? Take a doctor, a husband, a father. At least that's what the police thought. They didn't know. No-one knew.

"Kate." A voice breathed, shock in the tone. Oh god, she thought. Not now. She exhaled, a sigh and a cry for help. She must look pretty terrible. He never called her Kate.

"Jesus." Sawyer walked towards her decimated form. "What the hell?"

She refused to look at him. Of all the places she could have stopped running, why did it happen to be here? What the hell was he doing this far from the beach, from the raft, from his precious books? She willed him away. She prayed over and over again for her eyes to open and for him to be gone. Kate opened her eyes. No such luck.

"Smurf off, Sawyer." She muttered through clenched teeth.

"Woah, Freckles." Back to normal then, Kate thought. "I don't know where you been, or what's happened, but I sure as hell ain't gonna leave you here like this. I know I'm a bastard, trust me I do, and you can call me every name under the sun once we get back to the beach. But I'm not going back without you." Christ, he thought. He'd never seen someone look so…drained? Tired? Lost?

"Super. 'Fraid you'll have a long wait then." She spat out the words. She had reached the edge, Sawyer realised. Everything that had happened, now or today or at any point in her life, had suddenly become too much for her. She was practically shaking under the burden of knowing what she had done. Of course he knew, knew the weight a murderer carried, knew the torture he put himself through everyday just to try and repent for his sins. And he hadn't murdered someone he loved. Kate had.

But she wouldn't speak to him if he showed her he was concerned. Kate didn't know how to react to concern, and if he was honest, Sawyer had trouble conveying it. Neither of them was overly good at talking about their emotions or worries, or letting down barriers. Ah well. Here goes nothing. He stretched his limbs, found a patch of grass opposite Kate, and sat.

"Right. Well we've got lots of time to talk about why you're out here lookin' like you've been ten rounds with Ali then."

"I don't want to talk, Sawyer."

"Funny that, seeing as how ya are and all." Sawyer smirked despite himself. He knew Kate would never see in him what she saw in Jack, but they sure did have some good debates. "I'm guessin', and now correct me here if I'm wrong, that something happened with the good doctor up at the caves. And you're thinking too much about the past and those mug shots."

She flinched, ever so imperceptibly, and Sawyer knew he was right. Ah, ya had to love cons, they were all the same deep down. "So what's the problem Freckles? Jack knows about your chosen career, does he not?"

No, she thought. He knows I've killed a man. He knows I loved that man, but not that he made me feel special and safe, just like Jack does. He doesn't know that when I dream about him, he turns into Tom and dies. He doesn't know. A whimper escaped her throat.

Sawyer heard it, that tiny cry, the tip of an iceberg even he couldn't imagine. He saw the answer to his question run through her eyes like a silent movie, the answer he didn't hear but could only imagine. She sobbed again, louder this time, the breath catching in her throat. Kate buried her face into her arms, her whole body visibly jolting as it wracked with tears that overwhelmed her.

Oh god, I'm crying in front of Sawyer. She felt the pain from her feet, the cuts down her arms from razor sharp reeds, the look on Tom's face as he died, the look on Jack's face as she ran. Kate shattered. She felt herself dissolve, fragment by fragment, until all that was left were the layers of grief, the years of regret and running and hiding and loneliness. The pieces fell in her mind, each reflecting a regretful moment like a splinter of mirror or polished glass. And as Sawyer's arms encircled her, picking her up and forcing her to stand and lean against him, she knew she would never find all the pieces again.

He had followed the path of her destruction, the trampled plants and footprints - bare, he noticed worriedly - through the suction of the sopping mud. Jack waded along for an hour, knowing there was no point in running, for Kate would stop whenever she decided to, and Jack running also would only lead to one of two outcomes; he would take a wrong turn and never find her, or he would stumble carelessly into her silence and make a blunder of trying to speak to her. He walked and found fragments of her along the way; a hair tie, a snag of material... blood. He shuddered, reminded himself it was only a little, and continued.

Jack left his mind blank as he walked. He couldn't let himself think, for there were too many questions and not enough answers, so much buried. He thought of that toy plane she never let go, of her despair at telling him it belonged to the man she loved. The man she killed. And then Jack cleared his mind, because it was killing him to think of it. All he needed to do was speak to her, to stop tiptoeing around the past and all those things left unsaid. He needed to know what she kept running from.

So when he reached the clearing, that place where the footprints led, and saw Kate, he stopped. Stopped walking, stopped clearing his mind, stopped all the assumptions he had made. Because she was curled up in Sawyer's arms, clinging to him, and while Jack couldn't see her face he could see the white of her knuckles on Sawyer's back, and the quick kiss he pressed into Kate's hair. Through jealousy, and leaping carelessly into new assumptions, Jack didn't notice that Kate's body was shaking with tears. He didn't see her bloodied feet, or the awkward way she let Sawyer hold her. He saw only the two of them hugging, the flash of knowledge that they had once kissed, the way she ran from him, apparently to here, to Sawyer.

Jack turned on his heel, let black hardness enter his eyes and cloud over the hurt. And he walked away.