(no subject)
Astral Weeks
Fandom: LOST
Character: Sawyer
Rating: It’s genfic, but let’s say PG for darkness.
Summary: How to disappear completely without really trying.
Spoilers: For “The Brig.”
Disclaimer: Fictiony fiction with fictional characters borrowed fictitiously.
Feedback. Is good, yeah.
Warning: Intentional tense shift. Errors aplenty, most likely.
Astral Weeks
The second-to-last time he hid under the bed, they were playing Hide and Seek.
The second-to-last pair of feet he saw coming out of the hall and into his room were bare, toenails painted a pearly peach that reminded him of seashells. She always seemed to know where he would be. No matter how many different spots he chose-behind the drapes, in the clothes hamper, cramped into the space behind the fridge-she never failed to find him. Sure, she made a show of it, called his name all over the house. But all the while her footsteps were steady, heading in a straight and unfaltering line toward him. One time, he tried to outfox her: knowing the yard was out of bounds, he set his sights on the porch roof. Probably it was the screech and groan of the window as he tried to push it up that gave him away, but still she seemed to make it to the room too quickly to be chance, yelling, "JAMES. Get your butt down from there. NOW." She knew; he didn't know how she knew, but she did.
He wonders if she knew that the last time she said, "I love you," she was really saying goodbye. He suspects she didn't, but he'll never be certain. Just like he'll never be rid of the image of her white sneakers running softly out the door in a blur as he shook under the bed, wanting for all the world that she'd come back, just hold him, and block out the shock of light, block out the clacking of heeled shoes on his floor, block out the echo of gunshots that rang in his ears.
There's still a light ring in his ears even now. If he plugs his fingers into them, it's like listening to seashells. So he tries to think of her bare toes curling as she strolled slowly and playfully over the wooden floorboards, as if he didn't see her coming, as if she could pounce on him and surprise him when she yelled, "I got you!" But he played too, always laughed and screamed and tried to run away, knowing she'd catch him, and tickle him, and kiss him until she let him go.
She should never have let him go, should never have left the room. It doesn't make sense, but it does. Because the last memory of his mother shouldn't be her leaving him, like a scared rabbit running. He shouldn't remember the shade of her blond hair better than the details of her face. But that’s what stays with him, no matter what he tries to remember.
Some things just don't go away. Until they do. But then it's never the right thing. It's never right.
Without her there to find him, he thought he'd be lost forever, shivering under the sunken mattress where his daddy had slumped and gone quiet. He flattened against the wall, stretching away from the bulging form, daring to take only the shallowest breaths in case his stomach might touch it. He cried silently, but he never called out for her. Even when people came, shouting all of their names, shouting his, he never made a sound. They pulled him out eventually. They carried him away. But he kept quiet, curled up into himself as they laid him in a strange bed, well out of bounds. She would never find him now.
It wasn't just the loss of house and home that left him feeling like he'd been written off the map.
He wrote himself back into existence, a little bit of ink plotting his course. When he finally found what he was looking for, found it when he'd almost stopped looking, he didn't recognize it all. He didn't recognize this grinning captive with the cocksure charm. He didn't recognize what he thought he'd become.
He wasn't Tom Sawyer. He wasn't James Sawyer. He isn't sure who he was, let alone who he is now.
The ship has receded behind dense foliage, yet he keeps glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see it: a dark, decaying monument to something he believed in but that never really existed. It's only fitting. He feels like a dried hull of a person, run aground and wrecked. Everything looks the same, all the parts in their right and proper place. But it isn't the same. He's haunting his own body.
The camp is too far. He doesn't want to go there anyway. His feet hurt like hell and his toes are shiny with blisters, deep pink from the swelling and stained brown with dried blood. Where he stands, he sinks to his knees and lowers himself to the ground. Muscles shift against their will, but he wills them. Bruises press into rocks and twigs, but he presses them further until he's lying down, crooked and stiff. His mouth feels thick. His eyes feel heavy and his lashes stick together when he blinks, so he stops blinking, just lets the weight sink him further into the dampness. He'll sleep here; he's already drifting.
When he hears a crack of twigs, he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't call out. He just curls into himself. He keeps curling. He thinks he'll curl into himself until he goes straight on through, and leave a shell for someone else to find.
Completely and utterly unrelated, but: this made me cry. In a good way.
Neil Gaiman for the win.
Fandom: LOST
Character: Sawyer
Rating: It’s genfic, but let’s say PG for darkness.
Summary: How to disappear completely without really trying.
Spoilers: For “The Brig.”
Disclaimer: Fictiony fiction with fictional characters borrowed fictitiously.
Feedback. Is good, yeah.
Warning: Intentional tense shift. Errors aplenty, most likely.
Astral Weeks
The second-to-last time he hid under the bed, they were playing Hide and Seek.
The second-to-last pair of feet he saw coming out of the hall and into his room were bare, toenails painted a pearly peach that reminded him of seashells. She always seemed to know where he would be. No matter how many different spots he chose-behind the drapes, in the clothes hamper, cramped into the space behind the fridge-she never failed to find him. Sure, she made a show of it, called his name all over the house. But all the while her footsteps were steady, heading in a straight and unfaltering line toward him. One time, he tried to outfox her: knowing the yard was out of bounds, he set his sights on the porch roof. Probably it was the screech and groan of the window as he tried to push it up that gave him away, but still she seemed to make it to the room too quickly to be chance, yelling, "JAMES. Get your butt down from there. NOW." She knew; he didn't know how she knew, but she did.
He wonders if she knew that the last time she said, "I love you," she was really saying goodbye. He suspects she didn't, but he'll never be certain. Just like he'll never be rid of the image of her white sneakers running softly out the door in a blur as he shook under the bed, wanting for all the world that she'd come back, just hold him, and block out the shock of light, block out the clacking of heeled shoes on his floor, block out the echo of gunshots that rang in his ears.
There's still a light ring in his ears even now. If he plugs his fingers into them, it's like listening to seashells. So he tries to think of her bare toes curling as she strolled slowly and playfully over the wooden floorboards, as if he didn't see her coming, as if she could pounce on him and surprise him when she yelled, "I got you!" But he played too, always laughed and screamed and tried to run away, knowing she'd catch him, and tickle him, and kiss him until she let him go.
She should never have let him go, should never have left the room. It doesn't make sense, but it does. Because the last memory of his mother shouldn't be her leaving him, like a scared rabbit running. He shouldn't remember the shade of her blond hair better than the details of her face. But that’s what stays with him, no matter what he tries to remember.
Some things just don't go away. Until they do. But then it's never the right thing. It's never right.
Without her there to find him, he thought he'd be lost forever, shivering under the sunken mattress where his daddy had slumped and gone quiet. He flattened against the wall, stretching away from the bulging form, daring to take only the shallowest breaths in case his stomach might touch it. He cried silently, but he never called out for her. Even when people came, shouting all of their names, shouting his, he never made a sound. They pulled him out eventually. They carried him away. But he kept quiet, curled up into himself as they laid him in a strange bed, well out of bounds. She would never find him now.
It wasn't just the loss of house and home that left him feeling like he'd been written off the map.
He wrote himself back into existence, a little bit of ink plotting his course. When he finally found what he was looking for, found it when he'd almost stopped looking, he didn't recognize it all. He didn't recognize this grinning captive with the cocksure charm. He didn't recognize what he thought he'd become.
He wasn't Tom Sawyer. He wasn't James Sawyer. He isn't sure who he was, let alone who he is now.
The ship has receded behind dense foliage, yet he keeps glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see it: a dark, decaying monument to something he believed in but that never really existed. It's only fitting. He feels like a dried hull of a person, run aground and wrecked. Everything looks the same, all the parts in their right and proper place. But it isn't the same. He's haunting his own body.
The camp is too far. He doesn't want to go there anyway. His feet hurt like hell and his toes are shiny with blisters, deep pink from the swelling and stained brown with dried blood. Where he stands, he sinks to his knees and lowers himself to the ground. Muscles shift against their will, but he wills them. Bruises press into rocks and twigs, but he presses them further until he's lying down, crooked and stiff. His mouth feels thick. His eyes feel heavy and his lashes stick together when he blinks, so he stops blinking, just lets the weight sink him further into the dampness. He'll sleep here; he's already drifting.
When he hears a crack of twigs, he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't call out. He just curls into himself. He keeps curling. He thinks he'll curl into himself until he goes straight on through, and leave a shell for someone else to find.
Completely and utterly unrelated, but: this made me cry. In a good way.
Neil Gaiman for the win.