2.
Aspects
Like one
Who having unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie. ~ Prospero
And on the sixth day, God might have made Man, but Jack would be settling for old ghosts and a spring of fresh water. Not much of a road to Galilee here for poor Jack. He's decided not to see anymore, as much as possible, and what he has seen, well, that's between him and his obviously slipping rationality. Snap out of it, he orders himself. Men of science are surely well served by the tangible, and here at least is the water, and the empty box of wood. He's shattered it out of frustration, and it felt like ending something that needed an ending. Maybe it wasn't, though.
There's a corpse around here somewhere, he's sure of it. No other discussion is necessary. So, then, it is back to camp for him and to let the others know what he found and then maybe everyone can stop being brats about the bottles. Coming up a week and he feels more like a world weary den-mother than anything else. Not much of a leader, despite what Locke pointed out. But maybe Jack doesn't have a choice. He shakes his head, thinking. The caves will be safer than the beach, maybe, and maybe some of the worst of the troublemakers will split up and away from each other.
He's keyed up, the rabbit-chase left him over alert and second-guessing himself. As he passes through tall grasses trying to wend back the way he came, the greenery rustles against him like whispers. Which is, of course, ridiculous. As is the sensation that he is being watched, always being watched.
John Locke's out of his mind, he figures. There's not much beauty here beyond the natural. Just jungles and empty coffins and his mind tries to correlate the two together, but he denies it. There's a lot of people back at the beach looking to him. Now's not a good time for morbidity.
A branch snaps, not under his own heel, and he whirls. There's that damn clicking sound again, but as his gaze flicks wildly, he sees nothing. Something's there, looking right at him, but right then, Jack isn't seeing a damn thing. The urge to flee, the sensible primal act of fight/flight still rises in him, though the sound fades away before he breaks into a full run. No, nothing but rustling grass. He didn't see a flash of something grey. Not after everything else he's gone through today.
Sure, he has no idea what the hell killed the pilot, but easier not to think very hard about that right now. Jack's got a lot of responsibilities. He's a doctor. Their lives are in his hands. He's gonna take that very, very seriously. Some of these folks are young, they need everything possible to make sure they survive until the rescue catches up to them.
He thinks of blonde little Claire, her belly all big, and his own stomach knots up. What if she births here? His pickings are mighty slim, and maybe women have been doing this for centuries without his hands and guidance, but right now, it's all on him. He's got to be the leader. He's got to be everything he found out his father wasn't. Jesus.
Jack nearly heaves, and chalks it up to the stress of the day. He's reaching the beach. Pretty soon he'll hear the bickering again, all that anger masking the real fear of the unknown. He stalks closer and closer and sure enough. He hears Boone, and Charlie, and Kate. He doesn't hear anything else.
Jack sees the shoving match start, and the words start to pour out of him. "Leave him alone," he starts. "It's been six days and we're all still waiting. Waiting for someone to come. But what if they don't? We have to stop waiting. We need to start figuring things out. A woman died this morning just going for a swim and he tried to save her, and now you're about to crucify him?"
For the jungle, the words begin to fade away. The wind rises and the eye of the island just watches.
That something grey is still standing there, amid the tall grass, looking after the doctor who left him behind. It's a little boy in a grey hoodie with a dark, dark hole in it, and he is standing very still and very quiet, and he will never, ever be seen by the very rational man with all the lives of the survivors in his hands. There are tears frozen on his pale face.
The grass rustles and whispers, again, the words the good doctor will never hear, never acknowledge. "Why wouldn't you help me?"
The wind rises again and then drops into silence and the little boy is gone, nothing more than half-remembered shadows. Less than a ghost, barely a wisp of memory, an aspect of something that can never be found again.
