(no subject)
Sawyer lies on his bed with a pillow over his head. Beside him lies a copy of The Count Of Monte Cristo, another "recommendation" from the bar he'd found on his nightstand a couple of days before. He doesn't mind the random books; without a job, he doesn't have much else to keep him occupied around here when he isn't down in the bar. He just wishes he knew if there was a reason for the selections.
The headaches are getting worse rather than better, and despite what he might have indicated to Claire yesterday, they weren't all that mild to begin with. The idea of going back to the island long enough to check with Jack briefly enters his mind... and is just as quickly pushed away. Fuck that. He'd just LOVE me having to come to him for help.
Sawyer groans and presses the pillow firmly against his ears as someone walks down the hall outside his door, the sound of the footsteps like needles in his brain. He can't handle this too much longer. Sooner or later, he's going to have to find help...
The headaches are getting worse rather than better, and despite what he might have indicated to Claire yesterday, they weren't all that mild to begin with. The idea of going back to the island long enough to check with Jack briefly enters his mind... and is just as quickly pushed away. Fuck that. He'd just LOVE me having to come to him for help.
Sawyer groans and presses the pillow firmly against his ears as someone walks down the hall outside his door, the sound of the footsteps like needles in his brain. He can't handle this too much longer. Sooner or later, he's going to have to find help...