She walked through the high grass with attentive purpose, bending in moments of suspicion, checking the folds of broken twigs for fresh tracks, but finding none, each one she did find was old and fading. She'd been at it for hours, trekking through the jungle with no real intended path in mind, falling into a pattern of instinct that she wasn't sure how to hone and direct. The sun set high in the sky at this point, her back soaked with sweat under the bulge of her backpack, which was full with supplies for her day's trip. She continued to move, the crunch of plant life under her hiking boots the only sound she heard. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, which made her face blush with frustration.
She felt the itch to explore the second she woke up in her tent three weeks ago, the aspirin she'd taken numbing her senses just enough for her to close her eyes and succumb to her fatigue, but that trick wasn't a permanent fix, far from it. She barely got more than a few hours of sleep a night, and her stomach was so tied up in knots, even the smell of frying fish was less than appealing. No one spoke to her, besides a pleasant 'hello' and 'good morning'; they barely made eye contact with her. In the beginning, it stung, but once she realized that she'd done all she could do with what she had to give, she let it go, everyone kept their distance, and so did she. She wasn't even sure she cared anymore what they thought, not even giving any one a heads up that she would lose herself in the jungle every day, ironically, in hopes of finding herself again. She yearned for something, but it wasn't on the beach, it wasn't here either. It was someplace deep in the jungle, unguarded and uncharted. She had to find it.
She suddenly stopped mid-stride. Her head turned slowly, surveying her surroundings with a keen eye for the tiniest of detail. She felt something off-putting in this space, like an invisible entity was pushing her to move forward. She started to run, slowly jogging at first and then quickening her pace. Her heart pumped to the rhythm of her feet crashing into the ground with every hastened glide. She ran so far, so fast, her legs felt like they had been soaked in kerosene and set ablaze. Her hastiness led to her tripping, falling dangerously down an incline of grass, barbs of its prickling blades and bumps of sharp rocks cutting at her as she tumbled to the bottom of the hill. She rolled to a complete stop, lying still for moments too long, motionless. She eventually stirred, groaning loudly and painfully at the aches that burned all over. She felt like she'd been hit and ran over by a truck.
She pushed herself up from her stomach with a grunt, folding into a seated position. She assessed her head, legs, and then her arms, hissing as her dirty fingers moved over a seeping scrape on the underside of her right forearm. Her skin there was spattered with blood, making it hard for her to judge the depth of the wound. All she knew was that it hurt and stung like hell, and would only hurt and sting more when she cleaned it. It could easily get infected if she didn't turn now to head back to the beach. She cupped her head into her hands, staying in that position for what felt like an eternity, letting the tears fall, her sobs gut-wrenching. She gave herself a second to catch her breath after the flood of sadness ran its course, to wipe at the tears on her cheeks, and to wonder about what the hell she was doing.
She swore under her breath. "Damnit." She placed her hand over the gushing graze. She wasn't ready to go back, but she couldn't find the energy to keep going, not today at least. She was angry now, as she always was when she felt like giving up. She was tired of being dooped, whatever this game was, she was tired of playing, but she couldn't stop now.
She was almost there.
She could feel it. She could feel everything and it was driving her insane.
The camp was winding down with the inevitably of sunset. Charlie stood on the beach, watching the waves of the ocean crash into the shore and retread. He turned back to the treeline, his gaze falling on Claire and Aaron, watching their interaction with a smile. In his rapture, Charlie caught a glimpse of Hurley walking past the moment between mother and son, travelling down the beach with his usual wide gait.
"Hey! Hurley!" Charlie yelled, racing down the beach to catch up to his friend, or whatever was left of their relationship. "Wait up!"
Hurley stopped in his tracks, mentally cursing himself for being spotted. He was actively avoiding Charlie, which was pretty hard to do, but he made the effort. The awkwardness, the tension between them ever since Kate and Sayid came back wasn't resolved and he had no idea what to do about it. What Charlie said, not only about Jack, but about Libby, stung and hadn't stopped stinging. He was never one to hold a grudge for too long, his heart so full of forgiveness, but this for some reason, was unforgivable, at least right now.
Hurley turned to him, forcing a smile. "Hey."
"So, uh, what are you up to?" Charlie asked, desperate to hang out with him, to get more than three words out of him.
Hurley hesitated, thought through his answer before giving it. "Uh…nothing much. Just about to go…uh, do something that's really…nothing." Hurley faltered awkwardly, watching the look of exasperation flood Charlie's face. He still hadn't been forgiven, and it was breaking his heart.
"See ya around." Hurley rushed to leave.
"Hurley, wait!" Charlie shouted, obviously irritated and at his wits' end. He stepped up to him, his eyes pleading "You've been dodging me for weeks. I know you're still mad at me, but I've apologized for what I said. I just…I miss my best friend." Charlie moved closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just, forgive me, mate."
Charlie could see that Hurley was relenting a little, his eyes falling to the sand, but then steely resolve reawakened, reminding him that Charlie had truly hurt him and that apologizing wasn't going to fix this. He wasn't sure what would. "Look, dude, I get that you're trying to like, make up with me or whatever, but I'm just not interested. At least not right now. I'm sorry."
Charlie hung his head as he watched Hurley retreat and move farther and farther away. With each step, his hope that tomorrow would be the day that he forgave him was quickly fading. He shook off another bout of disappointment and walked towards Claire, who had just finished changing Aaron's diaper and lowered him into his crib for bed. She looked up once she felt Charlie next to her. She took his hand as he sat down next to her.
"Still no luck with Hurley, huh?" Claire asked sadly, tucking Aaron's blanket around him.
Charlie sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingertips. "I screwed up, royally. Mentioning Libby was just a really bad call."
Claire scoffed. "What you said about Jack didn't help matters either, you know." She reminded him. It was a conversation they had avoided, the topic of Jack and rescue. "He believes that he'll come back for us, whether he's said so or not."
"Well, at least I'm trying to talk to him. You've been working up the courage to talk to Kate for weeks now, and the last time I checked, you haven't." Charlie argued.
"She leaves the beach every day, for hours. I haven't found the opportunity. Plus, I...just don't know what to say, you know?" Claire admitted. "I should have been there for her, but...," she stammered, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts, "I don't know what to believe and I don't think that's what she wants to hear."
She looked up at him. The sadness in Claire's eyes mirrored his own, Charlie thought. They were losing their best friends and they weren't sure how to go about getting them back. He brought his arm around her, both watching Aaron squirm about in his crib.
Kate approached the beach, returning hours before sunset. The shimmering water of the ocean in the distance caught her eye. Its tranquil waves sung a song of contentment, of calm seas and cool winds. She used to look at the ocean blue as a barrier, a body of obstacles that kept her from the world she once knew, but she often wondered what she was such in a rush to get back to.
There was nothing there for her, but a cold cell, standing with walls of concrete and steel bars, keeping her from such a freedom that she experienced here, on this Island. It was such an incongruous dilemma she had to consider. What Jack was doing, what he was trying to achieve, rescue, was actually no rescue for her at all, it was the first step towards the arrival of a destiny that she tried so hard to avoid. The last three years of her life was on the road, the unglamorous, dingy impersonality of motel rooms and pick-up trucks of strangers that took pity on a pretty hitch-hiker, who was looking to run as far as she could. But now, she was surrounded by nature at its most elegant. It was sometimes hard for her to find the beauty of this place, like now, as her body throbbed with bruises from its jarring terrain, a place that scared more than it embraced, but the more time she spent alone in the jungle, she couldn't avoid falling in love with it on some level.
She approached a water trough that was situated in the middle of the camp, one that wasn't for drinking, and bowed into it, letting her pack fall to the sand at her feet. She unveiled her wound from a strip of tattered cloth, watching as it continued to smear with blood. She dipped a towel from the lukewarm water, rung the excess water out with a tight fist and brought it to the wound, the numbing sensation made her gasp in shock, but she wiped at the area diligently, hissing through the pain, the dingy white tank-top she wore soaked with blood where her wound pressed into it. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't even notice she had an audience.
"Looks like it hurts." She heard a voice speak to her from nearby. Rose. She was standing in front of a clothesline that was tied between the trunks of two banyans. She was tending to laundry that was pinned to the line, drying in the sunlight. She went along with unlatching the pins that held the garments to the string, then folded them one by one and placed them in a basket that sat at her feet
Kate shrugged with a forced grin. Even though Rose was right, her injury left the station of hurt long ago and was approaching blindingly painful, debilitating, she wouldn't admit it. She could barely think past the pain of it.
"No, it's fine," she winced, "I just need to clean it, wrap it up and wait for it to heal."
Rose always believed that Kate tried too hard to fit in, overcompensated with everyone she met, always offering to help, but never asking for help, but now she was just more determined than ever to distance herself, her independent attitude escalating, expanding to epic proportions. It was obvious that she wasn't comfortable here anymore, coming back after her long days away because this was where all familiar things were, except Jack. She presumed that without him, she felt even more out of place. Lost.
Rose stepped closer, assessing what she could of the jagged gash that tore itself into Kate's pale flesh. "I don't think that's a simple scrape that will heal as easy as you think." She was walking over to Kate now and gently grabbed the towel from her hand, tenderness seeping from her eyes. This poor girl needed some tender, loving care, Rose thought, and she was more than happy to offer it. "Here, let me help you. Come, sit."
She moved towards a nearby vacant tent, but Kate refused. "Rose, I can get it, really, I—"
"Katherine Austen, get over here." Rose bit back, her tone signaled finality, and Kate knew when to fold. There weren't many people that she could say that she was somewhat afraid of. Ben Linus? A little bit. His death threat still rattled her, but Rose Nadler was sometimes the scariest, but in a gentle, soothing kind of way in moments like these, when tough love was the cure. Kate conceded and walked to where Rose stood and sat where she pointed.
"Wait here." Rose disappeared, and seconds later returned with a fresh bottle of rubbing alcohol and cotton swabs, a roll of medical gauze, gauze tape and gauze sponges.
Kate watched in awe. "Where did we get all of this?" She asked, shocked to see the supplies that sat in front of her. This definitely wasn't from the aggregate of supplies that Jack kept up with under strict inventory. Everyone was always getting banged up, and she remembered how stressed he always felt when it came to being prepared if something huge were to happen.
Rose opened the bottle and tore away the safety label. "It dropped from the sky. Literally. These care packages keep coming, and they literally parachute onto the Island. One every few weeks. This last one was full of medical supplies. Bandages, scalpels, even Q-tips. Jack would have built himself a little infirmary with the stuff we got now." She laughed, catching the light of amusement brighten Kate's face, and then her gaze dimmed, fading into memories that never would be.
She could see Jack now, excited to organize and utilize the materials. She guessed that this recent care package was meant for the medical station she and Claire found after they tracked down Rousseau, hoping that she would lead them to a vaccine that Claire believed to be the cure for Aaron's ailments. Her thoughts were chased away by searing pain. The acerbic bite of the alcohol made her gasp loudly in distress. She would have exploded with expletives had it not been for the elder standing above her.
Rose whispered her apologies and continued to apply the antiseptic to the bubbling gap. "What were you doing out there to bang yourself up like this?" She asked, swiping at the wound with a cotton ball and reaching for the medical gauze, unraveling it. The pink swelling that surrounded the cut looked relatively normal, a common inflammatory response.
Kate opened her eyes, filmy with shunned tears, her breaths coming out in short pants. She focused her eyes towards the ground, averting Rose's scrutiny. "Nothing. I just, tripped and fell down this hill. I didn't even see it coming." She half-lied, laughing through her pain, attempting to make light of the tumble that could have been far worse that it was.
"That's kind of why we travel in packs whenever we go out there." Rose pointed out. She tended to the wound further, applying gauze sponges over it, before wrapping the gauze cloth around her arm.
"There's just something I need to do, and I need to do it alone." That was all Kate was willing to reveal of her plan, or lack thereof. She was shocked that her response didn't lead into an interrogation about where she went every single day and why she always came back looking even more banged up than when she left. Rose wasn't one to pry, but when she cared, she made an exception, and Kate could tell that she cared. She always cared, no matter how many times she screwed up, and it was becoming one of those constants in her life, something that she counted on, fell back on. She came to rely on these people, and it was the best and worst feeling imaginable.
Rose shrugged, taking her answer at face value. "Maybe you just don't want to be here," she suggested. Kate's head whirled, looking into her elder's eyes now, the accusation stinging. Rose wasn't affected by the surprise in her eyes, she merely challenged it. "Don't look at me like that. You're not happy here."
Kate didn't even try to deny it; there was a large shard of truth that hurt her to admit. These people were like family to her, and she didn't care one bit about leaving them behind every morning, and it was only out of exhaustion that she came back every night before sundown, reaching for her tent with tired arms. It wasn't who she was, to feel so detached, it never has been, even when she was on the run, but it was who she needed to be if she was ever going to do what she needed to do. She sighed, watching down the beach, the image of Claire singing to Aaron, rocking his crib while she did so made her feel guiltier for feeling so remote.
"No one believes me," she hung her head low, her curls curtaining her frown, "about Jack." There, she admitted where her unhappiness stemmed from, where the hurt still throbbed and ebbed. It was bad enough that Jack wasn't here, but this, not having anyone to talk to about her feelings, it made it worse. "After everything he's done for us, it was so easy for everyone to walk away, to believe that he would turn his back on us." She shook her head, defiant. "It's just not right."
Rose smiled to herself as she put the finishing touches on the bandages. "I believe you."
She'd said it so nonchalantly that Kate thought she hadn't said it at all. "What?" She blurted out, nearly choking. Rose said nothing, continuing to apply tape to the ends of the bandages. "Well, why didn't you say anything?" Her tone was angry, disappointed. It would have been nice to have an ally that night, she thought, when Charlie made it his business to assess a situation he knew nothing about and when Sayid, even Sawyer, neglected to back her up.
"What good would that have done?" Rose asked, tearing another piece of gauze tape from the roll. "Do you think the others would have suddenly changed their minds? The second Sayid said that Jack was gone, they were going to believe the absolute worst, no matter what." She angled her head, forcing Kate to meet her gaze. "That is, unless you're starting to believe the worst too?"
"Me? No." Kate shook her head. "I trust Jack completely. He's gonna get each and every one of us off this Island."
Rose grinned. She hadn't expected any other answer. "Good." She was done dressing Kate's wound now, laying one final piece of tape on the stretchy material, so that it wouldn't unfasten. "Do you want to know why I believe that?" Kate's eyes pleaded for an answer, her brow cocked in question. "Because Jack is a man of his word."
"You don't know this, but Jack saved my life." Rose said as she sat down next to Kate.
"He did?" She was just starting to realize how involved Jack was in the dire situation immediately after the crash. She'd only just discovered from Locke that he pulled people out of burning airplane wreckage, now she knew that he was the one who saved Rose's life. There was no telling how many people in this camp were alive because of Jack's quick thinking and selflessness, even though he was hurt himself, a wound she was all too familiar with. She could count herself and Sawyer in that group now. This revelation made everyone's sudden turn more depressing and frustrating to her.
"Yep. We met way before that though. On the plane. He was sitting across the aisle from me and Bernard, who had drank too much during the flight and had to go to the bathroom." She smiled, remembering her warning that his bladder always gave before he insisted. "That's when the turbulence started. Small jostles, here and there. I was scared, so I held on to Bernard's ring that was around my neck, for safe-keeping. Jack noticed this and tried to make me feel better."
"He made a promise, to keep me company until Bernard came back to his seat." Rose admitted. "That's when…" Her voice trailed away, the fear she'd felt in that moment returning.
Kate, captivated by the story, finished her thought. "The turbulence got worse."
Rose shook her head. "The entire cabin was shaking, and when I finally came to, I was on this beach, and Bernard wasn't next to me." She pointed into the distance. Kate's eyes followed. "I sat on that hill over there, for hours a day. I didn't eat, I didn't drink, I just stared out at the ocean, hoping with all my might that my husband was alive. I felt cold, empty, and I started to believe the worst, that he was dead, that I would never see him again, but I had to keep faith. I had to believe that he was alive. That was all I had."
Kate knew the feeling. While Jack wasn't missing or presumed dead, he was gone, and all she had left was the hope of seeing him again. "Jack sat down next to me one day, talked to me, even though I didn't say anything back. He insisted on staying with me, for as long as it took, and he did. He was worried about me, more than I was worried about myself."
She moved her eyes from the sandy, undulating plot in the distance and looked Kate in the eyes. "He was keeping his promise to me, to this stranger that he owed nothing to, and I don't think he realized that was what he was doing. He was just, being who he is. I let him off the hook, told him that he didn't have to keep me company, but I couldn't get rid of him that easily." So, he hovered, Kate thought with a light chuckle. It was what Jack did when he felt like he needed to keep an eye on someone, when he felt helpless, when proximity was the only solution to those feelings of helplessness.
"Jack kept that promise," Rose took Kate's hand, folding into it into her own, "and he'll keep this one. I know it." Kate's eyes grew weary then, her eyelids at half-mast, tears in her eyes. Rose saw how hard it was becoming for this girl to keep it together, to rise above what everyone has told her and to soldier on by herself, but she was doing it. Rose began to believe that Kate Austen had no idea how strong she really was.
Rose lifted Kate's chin with her curled index finger, encouraging her to look into her eyes. "Faith is a very powerful thing, Kate, but it's not always as popular as those who believe want it to be. If you believe, with all of your heart, that Jack won't stop until he gets us off this Island, nothing else should matter."
Kate felt her composure crumbling as she flung herself into Rose's arms, hugging the older woman, her voice strangled by her emotions. "Thank you, Rose." The cleaned and covered wound pinched at her sudden movement, but she didn't care. She was too grateful to care, too comfortable in the circle of Rose's nurturing, soothing arms to think about anything else. Rose was the first to pull away, cupping Kate's cheeks in her hands, wiping the young woman's tears away.
"You just keep your head up. Do you hear me?" She demanded. "Remember, no matter what anyone tells you, follow your heart. Never abandon that. Okay?" Kate silently nodded, a bright smile mingled with the stain of her tears.
"You okay?" Rose said, laughing gleefully at the sight of her gorgeous smile.
"Yeah. Yes." Kate said with a laugh of her own, wiping at the remnants of her tears.
"Okay." Rose stood, picked up her basket of neatly folded laundry, and retreated back to her tent, not before taking one last look at Kate, who took a moment to pull herself together. She eventually rose, picked up her bag from the ground nearby and turned to leave. "Kate?" She turned to the sound of Rose's voice.
"I hope you find what you're looking for." She only offered a small smile in response, turning to approach her tent. She hadn't mentioned anything about her purpose, about why she went into the jungle every day, searching for something that continually evaded her grasp. She giggled at herself. It was just Rose's magic, her sixth sense, her gift of reading between the lines. She was a few strides away from her tent's opening when she heard someone speak up.
"What you got in that bag of yours to chow on, Light Foot?" She knew that voice anywhere. Sawyer. She angled her head, looking towards the sound of his voice. He was slouched in the sand in front of his tent; his sun-kissed mane blew in the cool breeze, a paperback in his hand, reading glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. He hadn't looked up from the small print of the pages, but he knew he'd gotten her attention.
"Light Foot?" She asked, cocking her hip and crossing her arms across her chest.
He finally looked up at her, a grin on his lips. "You leave the beach every morning without making a sound. Get it?"
She was less than amused, the newly-minted nickname annoying her more than anything. "Oh." She deadpanned. "Sorry, I got nothin'. You should go see what's in the kitchen." She started towards her tent when she felt him rise to his feet behind her, pulling the glasses from his face. She stopped in her tracks, taking a deep breath for her patience had been rattled already today, to its limits. He really couldn't have picked a poorer moment to try to piss her off.
"You mean to tell me that you've been in the jungle all day and you ain't picked a single piece of fruit?" Sawyer asked. He wasn't asking her for fruit, he wanted to know where she'd been, Kate thought, but she wasn't interested in playing it safe, nor was she interested in having this conversation. He noticed her bandaged right forearm before she could answer.
He pointed, reached. "What the hell happened to you?"
He sounded genuinely worried, she noted, grateful that he still cared. He never really stopped, she reminded herself. "Nothing, it's just a scrape." She just wanted to get to the privacy of her tent, where she could sleep for the few hours she was now used to. She needed to hurry this along. "I get the feeling that you eat just fine, so you're not asking me about mangoes because you're hungry. What do you really want, Sawyer?"
He moved towards her, his voice lowered. "I want to know what the hell you're doing out there in the jungle. Every day for the past three weeks, you've been getting up at the crack of dawn, leaving the beach and coming back sometime before sundown. It's dangerous, Kate. You know what's out there. You know what the Others are capable of."
"It's been a nearly a month James, and they haven't bothered us. They got what they wanted, Jack, to do the surgery, they don't need any of us anymore." Kate reasoned.
Sawyer wasn't satisfied with that answer. "That don't mean they won't try to make a statement, letting us know that they can still get to us if they wanted to." Before Kate could object, he added, "They've done it before." She remembered all too well and didn't take too kindly to Sawyer inferring that she'd forgotten. It was pretty hard to forget being captured, having a bag thrown over her head, being blindly dragged through the jungle, and having a gun pointed at her throat all within the span of a few hours.
"Yeah, I remember, but there's nothing to worry about." She softened at the anxiety that was seeping through his eyes. "As much as I appreciate your concern, I'm fine."
No, she wasn't, Sawyer thought. She looked scrawny, wasting away under the emotionless garb she wore to hide what she was feeling. She worked herself to the bone every day, and for what? What the hell was she wasting herself away for? Why was she putting herself through all of this? The suspense was killing him.
"Goodbye, James." She said, giving him no opportunity to continue their conversation. She was already turned away, her tent within arm's length.
"Ah, I see what you're doing." She heard him accuse, leaving the best part of whatever he was thinking out of the equation, forcing her to ask for it.
She closed her eyes as a sign of frustration. He was really going to do this now, she thought angrily. She dropped her bag and turned. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"
"You're avoiding me." Sawyer predicted with confidence. "If you don't want to talk about us, that's fine. You ain't gotta hide in the jungle all day long." He wore that cocky, smug grin, the one he flashed when he was engrossed in flirting. "This beach is big enough for the two of us, Freckles. So is my tent, if you're ever interested."
If she'd never heard a blatant invitation for sex in her life, she was certain she was hearing one right now. She almost laughed, but refrained. "First of all, that's not what I'm doing and second, I'm not interested." The smile fell from Sawyer's face. "I just have a lot on my mind, James, a lot that has nothing to do with you. I just need you to give me some space."
Sawyer opened his mouth to speak, to argue some more, but Kate wanted none of it. "Just, back off." The finality of her tone was loud and clear.
She disappeared into her tent, leaving Sawyer with the realization that she wasn't lying to him, for once, that she had no intention of picking up where they'd left off. He was losing ground with her, precious time to start something pretty amazing was lost, and turning back the clock would take plenty more effort than Kate was willing to give him or anyone else for that matter.
The California sun bled over the balcony and through the blinds of the floor-to-ceiling windows in Jack's apartment, providing all the light he would ever need. He was hunched over the edge of his coffee table, doing what he'd always done, from the moment he woke up, until exhaustion seized him. Maps, unfolded and overlapping, and open books of atlases were scattered in front of him. Measuring and navigational instruments lay over them, rulers, a protractor, push pins attached to strings stretched from one set of maps to another, making for one tangled web. He'd been at this for weeks, spending day and night in the confines of his apartment, avoiding the outside world, reading, drawing, searching for this Island on every map and atlas that his hard earned money could buy.
His hair was longer by a few inches, his scruffy stubble thicker across his jaws, cheeks and pointed chin. He held a pencil in his hand, using the straight edge of a ruler to draw discriminate lines across one map, and then he picked up the elaborate protractor that the salesman said was the most accurate tool for the job, measuring its angle in reference to another line he'd drawn, hoping that it provided the correct measurement, but it hadn't.
He straightened with a blow of air that funneled through gritted teeth and open nostrils, looking down at the conglomerate of maps and open atlases with burgeoning spite. He hadn't figured it out. None of what he'd drawn or calculated made the sense that it was supposed to. Nothing was coming out the way it should have. In a fit of blinding rage, he angrily flung his arms over the surface of the table with a roar, causing everything in its path to crash to the floor. He straightened with a strangled sob, combed the fingers of one hand through his hair, its ruffled edges sticking out in various directions, making him look as unkempt as he felt. This Island couldn't possibly be this hard to find.
Emotionally drained, Jack dropped into a chair, and closed his eyes, his head resting against its back while one hand shaded his eyes, his index finger and thumb rubbing into his temples. His land-line telephone rang, but he ignored it. He already knew who it was without looking at the caller-ID. Now wasn't the best time for him, the past three weeks hadn't been the best time either. The answering machine beeped, his mother's voice filled the room.
"Jack, this is your mother. I've been trying to reach you, but you haven't been picking up. We need to talk. The Board of Directors wants to make an announcement about your promotion, and they want to do it soon. Will you please call me as soon as you get this? I'm worried about you, Jack. Just please, call me…Okay. Bye."
He had been purposefully dodging her, her persistence growing stronger the longer it took him to get back to her, to tell her the truth, that he wasn't going to accept the offer, that he was going back to the Island, the place he never told her about. She'd see it as a betrayal, as a denial of destiny, and he really couldn't deal with her disappointment right now. Evading her phone calls was bad enough, but lying to her was worse. He needed a moment, a minute to breathe, to calm down, a headache spiking from the rubble of his collapsing conscience. He hadn't been feeling well for awhile now. Barely ate a bite, barely slept, with every second that ticked by, he felt less and less like himself. His heart thumped a little faster, his pulse ticking like a bomb ready to explode, and he could feel it, what Locke was talking about. He could hear Locke's voice, ringing in his head, echoing through the stillness of his quiet apartment.
'This is your destiny, Jack. The more you fight it, the longer it'll haunt you.'
It was like he was standing right next to him, whispering in his ear, taunting and snide. He could see him in his mind's eyes, crouched over on the docks, bloody, decrepit, begging him not to go, and he was reminded that for a split second, he was contemplating what Locke was saying, he was actually weighing what he was saying against what he was doing, the pros and cons, what his decision to leave would constitute. It was impossible, what Locke said couldn't have been true. So why was he suddenly thinking about it? Why was it distracting him on a level that his anger just had?
With that terrifying thought trapped in his head with no way out, he jumped from his seated position with a start and dashed into his kitchen, looking around for something that would take the edge off. The coffee-pot was empty, which was good, because he was so wound up, caffeine would only heighten the nervous jitters coursing through him. So, he reached into his liquor cabinet and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch. He broke the seal of the cap and shakily poured some into a glass and stared at it with the soundtrack of his heavy, labored breathing. He hesitated, the faint caramel coloring casted a delicate tint over the off-white counter-top. He slowly picked up the glass, swiveled it in his hand, and resisted bringing it any closer to his mouth, the weight of it comforting somehow.
His resolve melted and his lips found the edge of the glass and before he knew it, his head tilted back, the alcohol filling his mouth, drowning into him. The way it scratched his throat on the way down, the burn, the taste, it felt amazing, too amazing. He flung the empty glass onto the counter, and then gripped the counter's edge as he closed his eyes tightly, savoring the moment, until the sensation faded away. It had, too quickly. He wanted more, so he reached for the glass and poured another drink, and with cat-like reflexes, realized a long-forgotten habit, a past demon rearing its ugly head. It was the middle of the day, and there he was, ready to drown himself in a bottle and never look back. Frantic, ashamed and scared to death, he backed away from the counter, startled with himself, with this anger, with this sudden need to drink and be drunk. The hunger for a soothing drink, a buzz was always there, but never like this. This was stronger than he had the strength to fight against.
He pressed all of his weight into the counter behind him, his legs growing weak. "What the hell is wrong with me?" He whispered to himself, eyes wild with panic, tears ready to flow.
He grabbed his head in his hands, rubbing with all his might, wishing that the throbbing would stop, but it wouldn't. This feeling had grown progressively worse since he'd gotten off the Island. He thought it was his usual course of adrenaline kicking in; the pressure to find the Island and get everyone to safety pumping through his veins, making everything feel so heavy, burdensome, but this was something else entirely, that made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. He had to get out of this apartment, better yet, he had to tell someone what was happening to him, what he planned to do, what choice he didn't have.
He walked into his bedroom, and pulled a t-shirt over the white tank-top he was wearing, while grabbing his shoes, pushing his feet into them. He moved back into the living area, grabbed his jacket off the coat-tree and the keys from the table that stood by the door, opened it and slammed it behind him.