To: Ernil i Pheriannath – I am glad you are enjoying the fan fiction Cirn and are writing. It is a lot of fun to write (at least for me, I cannot say for Cirn). I love angst in general. ;) We're working on it. There will be more to come. Cirn and I are working as fast as we can and shall until it's done.
To: pacejunkie – There is two reasons he took a knife. The first is protection, the second I can't say. You'll find out in this chapter – it will shock you all. I shall not answer the last question either. It would ruin the surprise. Cirn and I are.
To: elfmaiden4legs – Well, here it is, the update you were asking for! Everything's going to be a huge surprise from here on out.
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I could never have stayed. It would not been right for her or anyone. I will come back if I can get control over my addiction. I tried once to quit. It was bad. I hurt three people, including myself. It was a dark time. After everything, I went back. It had been two days of absolute hell. I'm afraid. It's happening again. There's nothing I can do. Can anyone or anything save me?
Charlie Pace had been gone six hours. He kept hearing whispers, though it was not the French woman. These whispers were in his head. They weren't real. The druggie would have realized that if he had been in his right mind. He wasn't. Sweat from fever dripped down his face and back. His light and dark gray striped shirt clung uncomfortably to the sweat, but he did not seem to notice or, if he did, care. His hands and legs shook, however, he marched on with a steady pace. His nose and red-rimmed grayish-green eyes ran and every once in awhile Charlie wiped them.
By nightfall, he was shivering so horribly that Charlie could hardly walk. He was stumbling every few steps and even fell twice. Because of the sweat, he could hardly see and that did not help his gait in the least. The man was hurting, though his mind after awhile turned off, so that all he felt was numbness, sadness and desperation. After he could not take it any longer, he collapsed under a willow tree. He lay there, unmoving until he heard the voice again.
"Mon-BÉBÉ, où est elle," the woman exclaimed, coming out of the forest. Charlie rolled over so that he was in a sitting position and looked up at the woman. At one time, she looked as if she were beautiful. Her hair hung in long curly brown locks. Her eyes were sharp and even though there was a deranged look in them, there was smartness as well. The French woman was pencil thin and she work a black tank top and brown pants that hung off her. In her hands, she carried a rifle.
"You're baby? I don't have a baby," Charlie whispered wondering if he was seeing things or if she was there. The British man was terrified. His breathing was fast and sharp.
"I saw you with a baby," she said licking her lips, "Is the child yours?" She raised the rifle and pointed it at him.
"N-no," Charlie stammered, "He's Claire's – not mine." Charlie shook his head and closed his eyes. "You're not real. No one's seen you but me," Charlie whispered.
Charlie had opened his eyes again. He looked around and there was no sign of the woman anywhere, though her voice could be heard faintly chanting, "L'enfant m'aidera. Aidez-moi à récupérer Alex. L'enfant m'aidera."
"I've gone insane," Charlie whispered, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. He placed his chin on them and winced. Locke's knife had pricked him. An idea formed and a grim smile came onto his face. Slowly, he drew the blade from his belt.
Charlie wandered the streets of London. His eyes were crazed and he was so thin, his bones could be seen. His light blue t-shirt was stained and ripped and his pants were not much better. The shoes he wore, a very old pair of Vans, were falling apart. He staggered into the ally and sank down onto an overturned bucket. He drew from his pocket a small Bowie knife. He surveyed his body and slowly and with shaking hands, he pressed the blade onto his wrist. He winced, but did not scream out. The man watched the blood flow and then passed out. Two days later, he woke with his wrist sewn up and in the hospital. No one had realized he had tried to kill himself – which was a miracle, because Charlie felt like an idiot – and so he was in a regular room. Three days later, he had been released.
The man handled the small knife with trembling hands. With accuracy, he dove it into his stomach and screamed. Blood poured from the wound as he twisted the blade. His face scrunched up in agony and Charlie screamed again – louder this time.
Back on the beach, Locke was leaning against a rock and seemed to be deep in thoughts. When Charlie stormed off for the second time, Locke decided that if he needed some 'me-time', Locke would give him that. He needed to go back to the beach anyway for water and food.
Shaking the remaining thoughts out of his head, Locke stood up straight and stretched out. He needed to clean his knifes, so he walked over to the water and sat on one of the rocks nearby. He started to pull his knifes out. Two out of his boots, one out of the left side of his hip, then he reached over for the one on his right hip only to find it missing!
That's odd. I could have sworn I had it with me after waking up, he thought. At first, he started to think that he might have lost it on the way back, but then the answer suddenly shot through his mind. Charlie!
Without even bothering to clean his knifes, he tucked them all back in their rightful spaces and headed for the woods. But not before grabbing a bottle of water and a clean cloth out of the 'Hospital' tent. He had a nagging feeling that he would need it. He had been on the beach for 2 hours before he noticed his knife gone, so who knows what the young man has done to himself?
After four hours of searching (or after the third hour, stumbling) through the woods, he still had not found Charlie. C'mon, John. You can find boars and all, why can't you find a young man with heroin addiction, he thought to himself, trying to give himself an energy boost.
He continued stomping through the plants and suddenly, a scream of agony pierced his ears. Locke's eyes widened as he recognized the voice as Charlie's. He tried to determine which side the noise came from, when another scream pierced the silence in the woods. Birds flew out of trees and more sounds of different kind of animals could be heard. Deciding on a direction, Locke strolled that way with determination. Sooner than expected, he stumbled on a scene he'd rather not wanted to see. Charlie.
Charlie leaned against the willow tree. His eyes were tightly shut with tears streaming down his face. The usual calm expression he wore upon his face had been replaced by a look of agony and craziness. From his abdomen wound blood poured. It stained his shirt and pants and pooled around the young man. His hands had dropped from the blade that still stuck in his stomach. He could not push it into his front anymore. Only the top of the handle was visible. He was panting hard with his mouth agape in a silent scream. The British man had no strength left to yell out.
He staggered out of a pub. He was looking around with a paranoid look in his eyes. He had not had a fix for two days and it was affecting him. He thought everyone was out to get him. With an unsteady gait, the man walked down the street. Feeling ill, Charlie bent over and threw up. "Are you all right," an American young woman asked behind him suddenly. With the speed of a cheetah he turned and grabbed her. The brown haired chubby teenager yelped out in fear. No one heard her though. The road was deserted. "Leave me along, Bessie," Charlie screamed shoving her roughly to the ground. Where he had held her was a huge bruise. Two men came out of what seemed like nowhere. "Hey! You don't lay a hand on her," an Australian man said grabbing Charlie and heaving him up and against the wall. Charlie punched and kicked the man, who fell backward into a third man with a sickening crunch. Without turning to see how any of the people were, he ran far away and into an ally.
Charlie desperately wanted to fall into unconsciousness. In that world, he would not hurt. However, no matter how hard he tried, he would not go. His eyes snap open as another wave of pain came over him. The man saw Locke and fear mixed in with all of the other feelings he felt. Locke had come to finish him off. Charlie knew it deep down. "Stay away!" Charlie rasped out as blood tricked down his face.
At the bloody sight of the remaining member of Driveshaft, Locke had to take a deep breath to steady himself and allowed himself to count to three – one, two, two and a half, two and three quarters, Three. He exhaled. With determination, he strolled over to the bleeding young man and grasped his arms. Locke desperately wanted to shake that man awake, but knew that that wasn't the best action he could take on a mortally wounded person. Therefore, he settled for yelling in his face. "CHARLIE! CALM DOWN!"
When the young man didn't listen and tried to break away, Locke sighed and felt regretful for what he had to do next, but he knew it had to be down, for both of their sakes. Raising his right arm, he said, "Sorry Charlie, but this is for your own good," and struck down hard enough to knock the young man unconscious.
Settling him down on the ground, he took a closer look at his wounds. It was not a pleasant sight. Locke took out the bottle of water and the clean cloth he'd brought with him. Gently tearing off Charlie's bloodied shirt, he poured some water of the wound and cleaned it with the cloth. After he deemed it clean enough, he put the clean side of the cloth on Charlie's wound and bound it with ripped off piece of Charlie's shirt.
With Charlie seated as comfortably as possible, he started in the direction of the beach. But night was falling and soon it was dark. They were too deep in the forest to make it back to the beach in time. Locke started to worry even more. But fortunately for them, a cave came into his sight. Quickly, he trudged over to the - hopefully - safer place for them to stay.
Hours later, Charlie woke. He sputtered and coughed. His stomach radiated pain. Laying there on his back, he looked around. The man could hardly see where he was. His sight was fuzzy and everything was foreign and confusing. His chest raced causing blood to pour from the wound and his breath to sharpen.
The young man had no idea what was going on. The thoughts he had were muddled and daunting. Everything around him was strange. He did not understand anything that was going on. A light flickered to one side of his vision. It cast creepy images of a distorted daemon wielding a knife. The fiend was coming towards Charlie. He screamed and his hands balled up. He punched and connected with something hard.
This activity wore him out completely. He slumped to the floor and his eyes closed. The feverish sweat from the withdrawals dripped down his pale face and pasty neck onto his insipid, heaving stomach and his body shook – he was a pitiful sight. He was sick and direly hurt. Would he survive?