Um, I really feel like writing this chapter in present tense, so I will. Let me know what you think, if you like it I may keep going, if you don't I'll probably revert back to past. Enjoy!
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It all comes back to Kate.
The attention.
The drama.
My jealousy.
And Sawyer.
I believe she's the centre of the silly little universe we've established. And she pretends she doesn't know. Like how Jack likes her. A lot. At least he sort of pretends not to care about her, sometimes. Sawyer . . . well, actually, he does pretend not to care. He doesn't hide his attraction towards her, his vaguely dirty thoughts –and she pretends to be offended, while really she thrives on them- but he does pretend not to really care about her. I hold out hope that it isn't an act. When his eyes follow her across the beach every time she makes an appearance, I want to believe that they're following her perfect, supermodel's body, and not the real Kate. Not the girl who treats him like shit and prefers to be alone and turns out to be a vegetarian (who knew? I mean, she hunts the boar, but she won't eat it? Where the hell is she getting her protein? She's probably some sort of succubus, sustained by the souls of unwitting men. I dryly think to myself that I'll have to warn Sawyer.) and who seems to want to be mysterious, though the biggest mystery I can see in her is how she remains perfectly plucked, smooth, blemish-free and utterly hygienic on this island.
A recap of the question which consumes me one morning: Does Sawyer simply lust after her, or is he thinking about more than her ass all the time?
The jury's still out on that. Rather than wait for an answer I know I won't get, I cast about for something else to do. Something to take me out of my mental Kate-bashing, mostly. Somewhere, under layers of envy and hurt, I know she's an alright person. Mainly I'm just frustrated with how she can't choose. Two men want her so badly the whole campsite can taste it. I honestly believe that Jack would be better-suited for her. Really. But either way, why can't she show us, one way or the other, that she wants one of them? Or neither? Because she can't have both wrapped around her little finger like this forever. I hope.
And I'm back to fruit-picking. Not only is it all there is to do, it's gotten a bit more challenging. Hungry hungry hippos that we are, we've been eating a lot of fruit. The trees near camp are entirely picked clean. It's been something like four days since Claire was taken, with no sign of Ethan, so I decide to take a chance and venture into the sun-drowned midmorning jungle.
I don't see any fruit for a long time, and uncomfortably head further and further in a random direction, tying bits of bright blue cloth to mark my path. Finally I see a flash of red mango skin. About twenty feet in the air, hanging securely from its limb. I look around me, to see many more fruits. A veritable produce-section. All out of my reach. Someone from camp has already been this far, taking all the lower treasure. And I can't climb trees worth shit. How much farther will I have to go to find something I can reach? I keep walking, starting to run out of strips of string for marking my way. I hadn't expected to need to go this far.
Suddenly I spot a flash of a colour that means food to my hungry stomach. Bright yellow. Bananas. An they're low, too. Maybe fifteen feet off the ground. I spend five minutes trying to get that branch. I take ridiculous running leaps, each one seeming to bring my fingertips farther and farther away. I lose my footing after the last jump, and topple to the ground, smacking my head on a tree on my way. Son of a bitch.
I hear a muffled thunk, an exclamation of pain, and then a voice echoes my last sentiment. Then it says more, not too far from me.
"What the hell are you doing?" Definitely him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Definitely Kate.
He sounds incredulous, next. "It's my knee. You practically busted my damn knee!"
What? What did she do? How? I think, by the sound of the little thunk I'd heard, that she threw something at him. Bitch!
The bitch speaks, with the nerve to sound affronted. "You're stalking me, now?"
"Stalking you? I was protecting you." I wince.
"From what? Southern perverts?" I stifle a laugh before seething silently at her. I feel as though I should leave, but I'm having a hard time figuring out which direction they're in, from me. Why is that so hard? There's a noise, obscuring my hearing . . . what is that? I can hear their words fairly well, but I don't know exactly where they are.
"Yeah, whatever. I can't believe you!" Sawyer whines.
"It's not that bad." Defensively. Does she feel bad for hurting him?
"It's my knee, I'll tell you how bad it is. What the hell you doing out here, anyway?"
"Everyone's been eating a lot. This is the only place the trees aren't picked clean."
"Yeah, well, you shouldn't be out here alone. Not after what happened . . ." I wonder what he'd think of me being out here. I don't even have the ability to throw rocks hard enough to make a person cuss and whine.
"I'm fine. I can take care of myself." Of course she can. Now leave her to it.
"Oh, of course. I don't need protection. I can take care of myself. Me Kate, me throw rock." He mocks.
"Shhhh." Kate says, suddenly.
"What? You smell blood on the wind?"
"You don't hear that?"
The sound that had been making it difficult for me to tell where they were! She hears it too. No more words, they must be either wondering about it or moving towards it. I do the latter, myself.
A goddamned waterfall. Wow. I stand there, admiring it for a moment. No way I can hear their words, now, they're fifty feet away, through thick brush, and the water is roaring. Maybe that's for the better. I smile at the scene before me. This island is really gorgeous, much as I hate it. My smile falls into the grassy bank at my feet as I see Sawyer run towards the edge of the spring, peel off his shirt, and dive in. He says something to Kate, smiling and wet. Next thing I know, she's gracefully stepping out of her jeans to reveal sleek black panties and those inexplicably hairless legs, and she's diving in after him, laughing. The last thing I see before I decide it's time to leave is Sawyer propelling himself off a rock ledge high above it all. My guess is that his knee wasn't so bad after all. What a whiner.
I feel sick. How can I keep running into them, falling into their intimate moments as though they're endless pits I can't seem to climb out of?
I manage to yank the bunch of bananas down on my way, throwing them against a tree in a three-second temper tantrum. Then I pick them up, one by one, because we're on a deserted island and you don't just waste food like that. Even if you're in desperate need of an answer nobody seems to care to find out.