fic: an ocean you keep drowning in
lost. summary: None of this makes sense. You can remember falling and not what came before that, only what came after that. sawyer; jack. 1,017 words. rated: pg.
disclaimer: only own in wishful thinking.
a/n: this is what happens when I want to have a try at Sawyer's voice. I am defeated in my attempt and promise to never try it again, alright? spoilers: Pilot pt.1 and something else but I don't want to say it because I might give away too much, although maybe I've already done that anyway. Sigh.
and in the places where you've been
nobody will say you've been seen
cocoon, vultures
Colors hit you in shades of white or grey. The sand and the sky, the metal and the paint on the carcass of the plane.
But that can't be right 'cause out there is the ocean, blue as it's always been, framing the beach where it always was. It don't look so bright now, but you can't figure out why.
The noises, too, their sounds are muffled; you think maybe you're underwater but you can't be, can't be because you can see the water from where you are and you're not wet, besides. But people are runnin' with their mouths open, saying things that don't seem like words so much as vibrations through the air.
You try and pick yourself up, one shoe meeting hard metal while the other tucks into the fickle ground. You're half sinking, body swaying to the side, like a drunk waking from a hangover. But it ain't your head spinning; you stare firmly at the sand and your head ain't spinning because you ain't lettin' it.
None of this makes sense. You can remember falling and not what came before that, only what came after that. But no. No.
No.
A scream breaks through, pitching the air. It draws the airplane from your ears and, we're off.
The engines are still running madly, desperate to suck in some air, frenzied like these people are: crying for help, wailing in pain. You hand flies up to your forehead on instinct, your fingers run through the rough ascending skin there. It's one of the few bruises, still there's a pain you feel, you don't know where it comes from but it echoes through you, hurts you behind your ears and in the tip of your toes and in other places you can't or won't name.
That woman is still making a godawful sound, her mouth impossibly wide and her face crumpled, she's got a body on her but all you want is to tell her is shut up, little girl.
A man in a suit comes running through this strand of the beach; he's faster than everyone else, and you know that that's because he's trying to get away, and not rummaging for something or someone. People are always in more of a hurry to run from than to run to, and this here is something you know one or two things about 'cause it ain't nothing but a thing we call survival.
The man slows down and picks his pace up again, and again, and again until he stops under one of the plane's wings. Both of his hands go up to cover his ears; it ends up being just a thought, they don't find their destination before he drops them again. He's turning in his axis, evaluating the damage even now, even when neither of you can understand a damn thing that's happening and it's all too much, much too much to take in.
Then he spins around and meets your eye like he's known you been there watching him the entire time, like your stare falls heavy on his back.
Your eyes meet and his jaw drops, his lips tremble, his skin creases in a frown.
Jesus Christ.
The doc's gaze stays on you for what feels like minutes, or hours, or some poetic shit that you add later, but it's not later, it's now. It's true though, the moment seems still in time, the air between you and everything around you appears frozen with tension even if that ain't right.
You see him, horrified, scared, sorry, dejected and all kinds of other things you ain't able to express in just one word. The thought that your face must look the same as his threatens to run through your mind, but then you read it: there in his eyes, plain as day, there is a tint of relief.
Your hands clench in fists, like sayin' how dare you, and if you were honest you'd know that it's for yourself as much as for him.
The wing above him starts to bend down and Jack's head turns up to look. He takes a couple of seconds and then a man screaming gets his attention. Jack goes off to help, and keeps on going, until you lose his track. By now you know that it's less about other people than it is about himself and you don't know which one of you is the sorriest son of a bitch.
He twitches to fix where you jerk to destroy; in the end, don't it all come down to the same ol' thing?
Now you can add names to the faces. You figure that it's the smoke that fades the blues and greens into grey; it's the foam that makes the sea white, bubbles rising to the surface and staying there as reminders of the last breaths of drowning men.
There's an explosion.
Hugo and Jack are huddled together and you think maybe you see one of them mouth 'Claire', but you look around and she doesn't seem to be anywhere. It gets you 'cause a pregnant girl ain't so easy to miss.
There are shadows of vultures on the sand and you're sure they weren't there before.
You see shadows of vultures on the sand.
This island traps you like the water, pulls you like a current, out to sea. And when a wave, so languid, tugs you forward, and your hand scratches the sand on the shore, gripping the ground for dear life, you barely taste freedom before getting pulled back with twice the force. And the hope you had was nothing but the natural movement of waves, because the truth is there ain't nowhere to end up but the bottom of the ocean.
Maybe it's what she was trying to tell you all along.
(You're only paying penance, and there ain't no chance of absolution here.)
You run a hand through your hair and fish your pockets for a cigarette.
disclaimer: only own in wishful thinking.
a/n: this is what happens when I want to have a try at Sawyer's voice. I am defeated in my attempt and promise to never try it again, alright? spoilers: Pilot pt.1 and something else but I don't want to say it because I might give away too much, although maybe I've already done that anyway. Sigh.
and in the places where you've been
nobody will say you've been seen
cocoon, vultures
Colors hit you in shades of white or grey. The sand and the sky, the metal and the paint on the carcass of the plane.
But that can't be right 'cause out there is the ocean, blue as it's always been, framing the beach where it always was. It don't look so bright now, but you can't figure out why.
The noises, too, their sounds are muffled; you think maybe you're underwater but you can't be, can't be because you can see the water from where you are and you're not wet, besides. But people are runnin' with their mouths open, saying things that don't seem like words so much as vibrations through the air.
You try and pick yourself up, one shoe meeting hard metal while the other tucks into the fickle ground. You're half sinking, body swaying to the side, like a drunk waking from a hangover. But it ain't your head spinning; you stare firmly at the sand and your head ain't spinning because you ain't lettin' it.
None of this makes sense. You can remember falling and not what came before that, only what came after that. But no. No.
No.
A scream breaks through, pitching the air. It draws the airplane from your ears and, we're off.
The engines are still running madly, desperate to suck in some air, frenzied like these people are: crying for help, wailing in pain. You hand flies up to your forehead on instinct, your fingers run through the rough ascending skin there. It's one of the few bruises, still there's a pain you feel, you don't know where it comes from but it echoes through you, hurts you behind your ears and in the tip of your toes and in other places you can't or won't name.
That woman is still making a godawful sound, her mouth impossibly wide and her face crumpled, she's got a body on her but all you want is to tell her is shut up, little girl.
A man in a suit comes running through this strand of the beach; he's faster than everyone else, and you know that that's because he's trying to get away, and not rummaging for something or someone. People are always in more of a hurry to run from than to run to, and this here is something you know one or two things about 'cause it ain't nothing but a thing we call survival.
The man slows down and picks his pace up again, and again, and again until he stops under one of the plane's wings. Both of his hands go up to cover his ears; it ends up being just a thought, they don't find their destination before he drops them again. He's turning in his axis, evaluating the damage even now, even when neither of you can understand a damn thing that's happening and it's all too much, much too much to take in.
Then he spins around and meets your eye like he's known you been there watching him the entire time, like your stare falls heavy on his back.
Your eyes meet and his jaw drops, his lips tremble, his skin creases in a frown.
Jesus Christ.
The doc's gaze stays on you for what feels like minutes, or hours, or some poetic shit that you add later, but it's not later, it's now. It's true though, the moment seems still in time, the air between you and everything around you appears frozen with tension even if that ain't right.
You see him, horrified, scared, sorry, dejected and all kinds of other things you ain't able to express in just one word. The thought that your face must look the same as his threatens to run through your mind, but then you read it: there in his eyes, plain as day, there is a tint of relief.
Your hands clench in fists, like sayin' how dare you, and if you were honest you'd know that it's for yourself as much as for him.
The wing above him starts to bend down and Jack's head turns up to look. He takes a couple of seconds and then a man screaming gets his attention. Jack goes off to help, and keeps on going, until you lose his track. By now you know that it's less about other people than it is about himself and you don't know which one of you is the sorriest son of a bitch.
He twitches to fix where you jerk to destroy; in the end, don't it all come down to the same ol' thing?
Now you can add names to the faces. You figure that it's the smoke that fades the blues and greens into grey; it's the foam that makes the sea white, bubbles rising to the surface and staying there as reminders of the last breaths of drowning men.
There's an explosion.
Hugo and Jack are huddled together and you think maybe you see one of them mouth 'Claire', but you look around and she doesn't seem to be anywhere. It gets you 'cause a pregnant girl ain't so easy to miss.
There are shadows of vultures on the sand and you're sure they weren't there before.
You see shadows of vultures on the sand.
This island traps you like the water, pulls you like a current, out to sea. And when a wave, so languid, tugs you forward, and your hand scratches the sand on the shore, gripping the ground for dear life, you barely taste freedom before getting pulled back with twice the force. And the hope you had was nothing but the natural movement of waves, because the truth is there ain't nowhere to end up but the bottom of the ocean.
Maybe it's what she was trying to tell you all along.
(You're only paying penance, and there ain't no chance of absolution here.)
You run a hand through your hair and fish your pockets for a cigarette.