Summary: 'I had his disposable camera, and I told him quite bitterly that I was going to destroy it. …But I saved it.' One-shot, implied JK, very slight implied CC.
A/N: This is the first fanfiction that I've deemed worthy to be submitted. I hope everyone enjoys it! Reviews would be absolutely fabulous and would definitely encourage me to submit more in the future.
Rating: PG-13 for thematic elements to be on the safe side.
Warnings: I can't say anything specific, but this isn't the happiest of stories, sorry!
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing; no infringement upon copyrighting is intended.

The Picture (All That Remains)

I finally put the picture away. Everyone had been begging me for ages to do it, to move on with my life. You know, just start over. They don't understand that it isn't as simple as taking the frame off my bureau and hiding it in the upper drawer of my left bedside table. And, now, even though it's done with and you're lying face down, looking at the cheap wood that lines my drawer, I can still feel your brown eyes staring at me. The telltale heart still beats.

I still remember perfectly when the photograph was taken. We were heading toward the beach, and your arm is draped over my shoulders, keeping me close. I can't recall what we were talking about, but we're looking at each other, both smiling. It's something people rarely saw from us. I hate the look in my eyes. It's almost adoring as I look up at you and try not to giggle. It reminds me how I tried to push you away, how I never wanted you to fix me, and how you did anyway.

Charlie jumped out in front of us with a disposable camera he found in unclaimed luggage. Neither of us was aware that he had even taken a photo until after we heard the click and the winding. My eyes snapped straight to him, and I was livid. I muttered a death threat; I hate having my picture taken. When I look back, I can only ever see the flaws. I chased him while you laughed in the background at his high-pitched screams. He didn't have a chance. After a minute, I had his disposable camera, and I told him quite bitterly that I was going to destroy it.

But I saved it. Despite my absolute hatred of being photographed, I saved it. I try to rationalize it now and say that part of me was curious to see the picture or, perhaps, that part of me doubted that I would even have a chance to get the camera developed. Eventually, I forgot about it, shoved in the middle compartment of my backpack. It wasn't until I was back home, when I knew that everything was really over, that I saw it again. I took the two or three remaining exposures of flowers in my backyard, and I dropped it off at the drugstore.

I waited the hour while they were being developed outside the store, sometimes pacing, sometimes sitting. It was the second longest hour of my life. You know the first. As though I had it timed down to the second, I rushed back inside and took the bundle of photographs right out of the employee's hands. I handed the cashier a twenty, even though developing only costs $7.95, and I didn't bother to get the change. I couldn't even wait to get home to open them.

So, instead, I sat out in front of the store and tore the packaging envelope open. I waded through at least twenty pictures containing various combinations of Claire, Charlie, and Aaron sprinkled with Hurley before I got to it. I let out a muffled moan when my eyes fell upon it. People heading into the store stared at me as I started to cry, but you know that it isn't like me to care what they think. I must have spent the better part of an hour outside the store doing nothing but letting tears roll down my freckled cheeks. I hadn't cried over you in months, but looking at your face so close to mine again just made the pain seem so fresh.

At first, I cried for you because I knew you wouldn't. I knew that not a single tear would come from your eyes. So I cried just for you. Eventually, I realized that you were fine; deep down, I always knew that you would be. I asked why for the first time. I had never been so angry with you in my life. Sometimes, I even wondered if it was possible to be angry with you, but, with time, I learned how easy it was. I was mad at how selfish you were, and I wondered if you ever even cared about me, about my feelings.

I sit up in my room alone, and I know the picture is there. It will always be there. My friends tell me that they just want to see me happy again, smiling, but they never ask what I want. I want to know how you could do this to me. I want to know what I'm supposed to do with the broken pieces that remain. I want to know, Jack, why you had to die.