Charlie couldn't remember ever feeling as alone as he did now, at least back in the real world he had his drugs, but now he was truly alone. No friends. No family. No fix. And it fucking hurt. He knew why Claire hated him, he could hardly blame her. Hell, he understood why half the island wouldn't so much as glance in his direction; they thought he was insane. And with the raving like a mad man, the crazy dreams, and baby stealing he could hardly blame them. But to see Jack turn his back on him hurt more than he would ever admit. He thought, if anyone, Jack would understand because Jack cared about everyone except, apparently, Charlie, the washed up rock star, the failure, the junkie. Charlie hated being "the junkie", the scum of the earth, society's outcast, yet once again that's what he was. He hated his brother for doing this to him. He hated the drug for doing this to him. But most of all he hated himself, because if he hadn't always been a failure, hadn't always been useless, hadn't been weak then, maybe he wouldn't have become this.
Fuck, he wanted a hit right now, it didn't matter that heroin had ruined his life, not really, because the more he thought about it he figured that he probably would have managed to ruin it anyway. And right about now Charlie just wanted something to numb the pain, some way to forget where he was, what he was. Something to kill the sting and shut up the voice in the back of his head saying "Charlie, you ruined it man, you had your second chance, and you fucked it up."
Charlie pulled up his hood, mainly out of instinct, as though it would shield him from the other's angry stares and let his thoughts wander inward. Memories flooded back of his Mum and Dad and of Liam, of all the other times that Charlie had wasted his chances, and he knew it would be a sleepless night.
Jack came to check on him the next morning and even the doctor's cool courtesy was an improvement over the silence. At least Jack cared enough to make sure Charlie didn't die, which was better than nothing. As usual he babbled in Jack's direction hoping wildly for some sign of emotion for some break in pretence, but none came. It was as though Charlie was not really a person, just a wounded animal. As though his words were just the growling of a viscous dog, who everyone thought should be put down anyway. Jack's visit wasn't long; he left as quickly as he had came leaving no doubt in Charlie's mind about how he viewed the incidents of the night before.
