The Island, November 2004
As soon as she got the chance, Emilie ran into the jungle and started sobbing.
One minute, everything was fine. The next, Desmond abandoned her and she had been discovered by a group of plane crash survivors who didn't trust her in the slightest.
Not exactly a great day.
"How can so much go wrong?" Emilie muttered as she tried to pull herself together.
Thinking of only one solution, she pulled her large, old, blue notebook from her backpack along with a pencil. She flipped to the next blank page and took a deep breath.
"Dear Whoever" was what Emilie wrote at the top, the way she started every entry.
Dear Whoever. Letters to no one. A story for someone to find one day and say, "Wow. This girl's life was fucked up." A diary, a journal. Emilie's refuge.
Desmond was her friend, but he wasn't really someone Emilie could vent too. And the only other person on the island she could talk to was Danielle, and since she tried to kill Emilie multiple times, she wasn't a great option.
She already had a bunch of entries from her old life, so the natural course of action was to continue.
Emilie wrote and wrote, the process as familiar as the back of her hand. She wrote about the hurt she felt at Desmond's betrayal, the uncertainly of her future, the wariness she felt towards the 815 survivors.
Emilie was not a great writer, but that didn't matter. It wasn't about the words, it was about the emotion.
"Hey, dude?"
"Aah!" She yelled, startled by the sudden other person. "Seriously?!"
"Uh, sorry." It was Hurley, the long-haired man who had been in the hatch. He was holding Dharma-brand food, and Emilie immediately knew it was from the hatch pantry. "I was just wondering if you wanted any food."
"Oh," She said, shocked that anyone would think of her. "Yeah, thank you."
Hurley handed her some of the food, which she took gratefully. He then turned to leave, but paused.
"You know, you don't have to stay out here in the jungle," he said. "You're one of us now."
"Thanks, Hurley," Emilie replied genuinely. He left after that, leaving her to think that if someone as kind as Hurley was there, maybe things wouldn't be as bad as she was expecting.
Maybe.
…
"Are we sure this is the best idea?"
"We can't trust her!"
"We don't know what she is."
"I'm right here," Emilie muttered as the 815 survivors continued arguing. She was at a sort of meeting of the beach camp, and it was not going well.
"Everyone, calm down," Jack said. "I'm not asking you to trust her, I'm just-"
"That sure sounds like what you're doing, Doc," A man with a stereotypical Southern accent said.
"Shut up, Sawyer."
"Look, if you all want me gone that badly, I can leave," Emilie sighed. Of course they did, why did she ever think things would work out with the survivors?
"No way," Kate replied. "Look, we have proof she's telling the truth, what else do you want?"
"Shouldn't we think about this a little?" A man who was clearly from Manchester said. "Does no one remember Ethan?"
"Charlie, this is different," A blond woman holding a baby said.
"How?!"
"Look, I don't know who the fuck Ethan is!" Emilie erupted. "My name is Emilie Arquette. I'm a pilot, and I crashed on this island two years ago. I can take you to the crash site again if you want, just leave me alone. I'm not an Other."
There was a long silence as everyone looked at her and then at Jack.
"She stays if she wants to," He said, and Emilie nodded to confirm that she did.
The survivors dispersed, but before Emilie could leave, she was approached by Kate.
"Sorry about all that," She sighed. "People around here can be a little paranoid."
"I get it," Emilie said. "The island, the Others. It makes sense."
"Yeah, well, it's all good now," Kate replied. "I'll, uh, see you later."
The freckled woman walked away, leaving Emilie to officially begin a new chapter of her life.
…
Dear Whoever,
My life sucks.
She wrote away in her notebook inside her new temporary home, a measly makeshift shelter composed of a tarp and some bamboo. Everyone was avoiding her, even people who seemed to be on her side, like Kate or Jack.
Emilie did learn more people's names though, so that was helpful. She also learned more about what happened to them post-crash, although it was hard to feel sorry for them since she had been on the island for two fucking years.
Two years, Whoever, Emilie wrote. You read that right.
"I should have gone to Vienna," She muttered, thinking of one of her favorite songs. "I don't think I'm getting what I want, I'm just growing old."
Even though no one was there to appreciate her reference, she was proud of it.
"Hey, Emilie," Came a voice from outside her tent, the only Manchester accent on the island. "You there?"
"Charlie?" She asked. "What's going on?"
"S-someone just died," He said frantically. "Shannon, she was shot-"
"What?!" Emilie exclaimed. She didn't know Shannon, but couldn't believe that someone had been killed. "Was it the Others?"
"No," Charlie answered. "It was the tail section survivors."
"The what?!"
It seemed there was a lot Emilie didn't know about.
…
She didn't go to the funeral.
She considered it, of course, but figured her presence was unwanted.
Instead, Emilie walked over to the killer and sat down next to her.
It had been explained how Shannon's death was an accident, but people still understandably avoided the one who killed her.
Emilie wasn't scared of the woman, not like the others. She was scared of Sayid, who was apparently in love with Shannon and was not taking it well. Understandable, but Emilie, knowing she was an outsider, kept her distance.
"Hey," She said as she sat down next to Shannon's killer, a beautiful woman with brown skin and striking dark eyes. "Ana Lucia, right?"
Ana looked over at Emilie and sighed, but nodded.
"Did they send you to guard me or something?"
"I doubt it," She replied. "I'm Emilie, I, uh, wasn't on the plane."
"What?!" Just like that, Ana was on edge, on action mode. "You're one of them?!"
"No!" She exclaimed. "I'm not an Other, I crashed here two years ago." Ana relaxed at that, but was clearly still wary.
"You're just as much of an outsider here as I am, huh?" Ana observed.
"Yeah," Emilie replied. "Yeah, I am."
She liked Ana, liked her immediately. Liked her in a more-than-friends way.
…
England, December 1996
"Mom, please-"
"What is this?!" Emilie's mother, Jean, shrieked at her then-17-year-old daughter. "A girlfriend?!"
Jean frantically crossed herself, prompting Emilie to roll her eyes.
"Yes, okay?" She sighed. "I'm gay. I have a girlfriend."
"Emilie!" Jean gasped. "I didn't raise you to be like this!"
"No, you didn't," Emilie retorted. "I was born like this."
"No. Not my daughter."
"Come on, Mom!" Emilie pleaded. "I'm still me!"
For a moment, Jean looked conflicted. For a moment, Emilie had hope.
"You will leave this house," Jean began gravely, coming to a decision. "And you will not return until you've gotten rid of this… this… sickness."
"Mom-"
"Go!" Jean shouted. "Now!"
That was the last time Emilie ever saw her mother.