Three Quarter Rest
Title: Three Quarter Rest
Author: daftavocado
Fandom: LOST: Charlie, Claire, assorted others
Spoilers: Season 1, up to and including episode 11, (All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues). gap-filler of a sort.
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 3704
Notes: written for the Suspension of Disbelief Challenge. (suspended_fic) thank you to jillybinks and shanalle, because this was a great challenge. :) complete absence of beta, because i finally finished writing five minutes ago, which was fifteen minutes before deadline, and that seems unfair to put on a beta. though mistakes are unfair to put on a reader, but i'm hoping you'll forgive me if you find any glaring ones. (i won't forgive myself, so i've got that covered, i swear!
Warnings: angst. drugs. death. violence. it's the first half of season one of LOST. if you feel comfortable with the spoilers, you'll likely be comfortable with the content.
Additonal Notes at the end of the fic.
Feedback: welcome.
He’d sold his iPod ages ago, for fifty quid. He had, in fact, sold two others before that, for eighty quid and sixty quid respectively. Those iPods weren’t his. He’d… found them… at the pub. He wished now that he hadn’t sold his. Truth be told, he preferred to choose what songs to listen to, rather than be bombarded with whatever music his subconscious chose to treat him to.
But Charlie wished a lot of things, now didn’t he.
-=-=-
Bloody airplanes. Bloody buggering airplanes and the quickest fucking mode of transportation back to fucking L.A. Fucking Liam and fucking Driveshaft. Sodding lump in his shoe making it impossible to fucking tap his fucking foot. Sodding hot airplanes. Cunting international law. How long til the bloody plane lands? Can’t fucking wait that long. Can’t not wait that long. Might get caught. Fucking tum in knots.
If Charlie had his iPod, Charlie would be listening to The Beatles. Charlie would be listening to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, or I am the Walrus. As it is, Charlie has no iPod and so Charlie doesn’t get to choose his music, and so his head is filled with Twist and Shout because really, that’s what he’s likely to do if he doesn’t maintain some semblance of self-control.
He can picture it, even. A fit. Twisting so violently in his seat that he ends up shouting in a puddle on the floor of the plane, gibbering like an idiot when his throat is finally too sore to keep shouting.
Shake it up, baby, now (Shake it up, baby)
Twist and shout (Twist and shout)
C’mon c’mon c’mon, baby, now (C’mon, baby)
You’ve got to get out.
That’s not the lyric. Charlie knows it’s not the lyric. Charlie taps his ring insanely on the armrest.
-=-=-
In the loo, Twist and Shout is on its way to Blackbird and Charlie’s this close to oblivion. Just a bit before he gets caught. Just a bit to hold him over. Dumping one’s stash is painful but probably not as painful as an Aussie prison cell. Or an American prison cell. He can hold out for now, and get hooked up after he gets back to L.A. He can do this. Charlie Pace is not as weak as he seems. Charlie Pace is not weak.
But the gentle picking of the guitar strings is suddenly replaced with distortion and clanging and discordant notes as Charlie slams up against the ceiling. Mother Mary, what the fuck?
-=-=-
Charlie is terrified. He lost the little bit of Blackbird bliss before he scrambled out of the toilet, dodged carts in the aisle, and belted himself into a seat. His brain is screaming electric guitar at him, a frenzied Bangles’ cover song from the eighties. His brain doesn’t even have the decency to give him the Simon and Garfunkel original. There are people around him screaming, Charlie is screaming, and the plane seems to be screaming. Even as Charlie realises the plane is ripping apart, the reference of the song in his head is not lost on him. Less Than Zero was a fucking depressing film. (Time, time, time, see what’s become of me)
Charlie knows that even if he isn’t sucked out of the airplane, and survives the impact, he doesn’t have a hope in the world because he’s between Australia and America and he doesn’t swim.
Charlie Pace is about to die.
-=-=-
This isn’t what Charlie expected. And don’t be mistaken, Charlie’s glad to be alive. But not everyone is as lucky as Charlie, and he’s walking around in a daze staring at dead bodies. At first, that’s all he sees. Dead bodies and fire and big chunks of metal that half an hour ago were fused together and safely surrounding him thousands of feet in the air. Now it’s unrecognizable.
One night last year, Charlie sat in Margo’s flat watching that Danny Boyle not-a-zombie flick. He’d tried to resist, because he had a thing against Danny Boyle after that Trainspotting shite made him all depressed and soul-searching when Dave made him watch it, but Margo insisted. She said something about how scary films made her want to cling, and Charlie was randy as fuck. How can you argue with a scary film, a pretty girl, and the promise of her heroin after a ride? You can’t, that’s how - p.s. sorry God, you’ll forgive me tomorrow, won’t you?
But now Charlie wishes he hadn’t given in, even though the sex was hot and the heroin was better, because standing here and looking around, all he can hear is the melancholy guitar from that godspeed you! black emperor song that wasn’t even on the bloody soundtrack album. That Murphy bloke in the film was walking around London and there was nothing but destruction around him, death and overturned vehicles and no sign of anything alive. Charlie doesn’t want this to be his Danny Boyle London headtrip, but he doesn’t see anyone else moving and he can’t hear anything but the “London’s empty” song and fuck, but he’s lonely and - oh! Wait! That girl is alive. Screaming a bit, too. Might fancy a bit of skirt like that, though this isn’t the time for it, really, given the doom and destruction and planes falling out of the sky and suchlike. Might do to give her his mobile number later, though.
Now that he’s seen and heard someone besides himself, Charlie feels a little hopeful that this won’t be his end-of-the-world film and sure enough, there are others running around and yelling and lying around and crying and some are bleeding but not everyone’s dead so the threat of zombies seems right out, then.
Charlie is as shocked as anyone when a piece of the plane almost falls on him. Time to be a little less complacent.
-=-=-
Hours later, and Charlie has no guitar. The shock has worn off, and Charlie wants his guitar to not be broken into a million bits or floating away or eaten by sharks. Floating away would be the best of these three options, because there’s still some hope, then, isn’t there, but the ideal would be for the guitar to be right here with Charlie (and a bit of junk). Charlie’s trying not to think too much about the junk. Or his guitar. He’s trying to think about that pretty blonde girl over there with the belly. Somewhere deep in his gut Charlie feels like she’s important, like she might be the answer to everything, because a baby means hope and a baby is a perfect new life and a perfect new beginning. She’s pretty to look at, and truth be told Charlie wants something to believe in because the past few days have been shite and now he doesn’t have his guitar or his junk. All he has is a brother that’s betrayed him, the lack of a recording contract, and the inability to look at himself in the mirror with any amount of dignity. Charlie wants to think about hope, about when they’re rescued, about new beginnings and about that pretty girl’s baby.
But his brain isn’t helping too much, because it’s blaring Patti Smith at him, or the U2 cover. It’s not his version because he hasn’t nailed it yet, though he’s played it a fair amount.
The promise that she
Is blessed among women
Maybe Charlie should think about something else. Blessed among women might be a little out of his reach. There’s that bit of skirt again. She doesn’t seem particularly holy. Maybe a little more realistic. Maybe slightly more expensive. She’s got that Paris Hilton thing going on. Maybe she’s got some drugs. She obviously doesn’t have a guitar (Don’t think about the guitar), but she could be holding something. Something besides nail varnish, though she’s making good use of it on her toes.
Charlie tries not to wonder why a miserable excuse for a human being like himself has survived a plane crash. Maybe the question is why he was on a plane that crashed in the first place. Maybe it’s punishment. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe he should be thinking about making up for his wrongdoings or making plans for how to use his life for the greater good since he’s still alive and all. Maybe he’ll just keep writing on his fingers.
Maybe he can find the bit of plane that has the drugs he never quite flushed down the toilet.
-=-=-
Charlie knows his brain is out to get him when he can’t get Monster Mash out of his head as he tries to catch some sleep and tries to ignore the fact that there’s Something in the jungle. Charlie also tries to ignore the fact that mash rhymes with stash and he really wishes he had just a little bit right now. Just a little bit to get through the night.
-=-=-
Charlie is on a journey with his new mates. So he just met them less than a day ago after falling out of the sky and nearly dying several times, but they could be his mates if he plays his cards right. Charlie is singing his vocals from his biggest hit and maybe Kate’s amused but Jack looks at him like he’s a waste of time.
That’s not really a surprise.
-=-=-
Charlie is decidedly not crying with relief when they find the front of the plane. Nor is he crying with trepidation at the notion that he may not find what he’s looking for. He’s not crying, full stop. He may be shaking a bit. (Shake it up baby, now.) It’s probably due to the very particular lack of drugs that isn’t moving through his bloodstream. Later, he’ll feel guilty for not helping Jack and Kate look for important rescue-related things. Later, he’ll feel small and apologetic for snapping at them. Later, he’ll feel shock and horror about the dead bodies he’s climbing over. Later, after he finds his junk and gets his fix.
-=-=-
Charlie is running. (Help! I need somebody! Help! Not just anybody! Help!) Charlie is falling. Kate is gone. Jack is gone. The pilot is gone and that is perhaps the most disturbing thing. Until the pilot isn’t gone anymore and Charlie and Kate are standing beneath his body. Charlie doesn’t understand what the bloody hell is happening. Everything is just fractured notes falling off the scale with a bit of a cymbal crash.
-=-=-
Charlie has more friends. Perhaps this plane crash thing isn’t so bad after all. Charlie has more friends now than he did three days ago. Unfortunately, the nearest pubs (do they have pubs in Fiji?) are hundreds and hundreds of miles away, so no pub crawl tonight, and none of Charlie’s new mates will have heroin when he runs out. Heroin is nice, though, isn’t it, and it’s nice that Charlie has some now. Things were getting a bit tense around here.
Charlie and his new friends (including Shannon the skirt, who practically invited Charlie along) are climbing and walking and climbing some more but Charlie feels good about it. Charlie feels good about it until they’re running again and then that violent bloke Sawyer is shooting a polar bear.
Charlie wishes he still had his iPod, because lately all he hears is madness when he’d really like to hear some Bowie instead.
-=-=-
Things just seem to get crazier. Charlie is thinking about that Nine Inch Nails video with the vulture and the absinthe and the staccato editing in perfect time with the beat of the music. Liam had dismissed absinthe ages ago as being too “poncy goth”, and Charlie had never tried it. He’d settle for some now. Time on the island is always flashing through Charlie’s head just like the video. Monsters in the jungle. Polar bears. Sixteen year-old pleas for help. Drowning people. Midges. Boars. He knows the song is about relationship troubles, but women, though nice, have never been Charlie’s perfect drug.
Claire is a nice girl. Claire may be the only person on this island lonelier than Charlie. They talked the day she was sick, and she said that nobody looked her in the eye, that she scared people. Charlie likes the idea of making Claire feel better; he feels more comfortable around her than around most other people. Claire is nice, and probably soft, and she reminds Charlie of piano music played brightly (it says so on the sheet music; who plays the bass brightly? No one.)
Except maybe around Claire, Charlie is nervous all the time now. He’s going to get caught. Someone’s going to see him with his little bag and his dwindling supply. Everyone’s opinion of him as a useless sodding nuisance is going to be lowered even more when they find out he’s a junkie. Someone else is going to be killed. No one is coming to rescue them. A bloody fucking mammoth is going to come to life under the ground and rise up and eat them all.
Or worse, he’s going to run out. Charlie knows that without some heroin to hold him together, everything falls apart.
The poncy goth video in Charlie’s head is getting more involved. Now he can add bees. And skeletons. And more shots making him out to be the git he is; shots of him saying stupid shite because he never thinks before he opens his mouth. Charlie needs something to take the edge off. More and more these past few days, Charlie is aware of just how much he misses his guitar. Without it, there is nothing but the drugs he has left to help him ward off panic and misery. He needs something, now. Now, now, now, now, now.
-=-=-
Charlie saw Jaws as a child, and the theme is admittedly creepy. It’s what he hears in his head when Locke the hunter-scout is following him around in the jungle. When you hear those first bass notes grow ever more menacing as the tension builds, you can feel it under your skin: it’s inevitable the shark is going to catch you. Charlie knows now that his inevitable destruction is about to happen. Locke has him sorted and there’s nothing Charlie can do about it.
Locke talks about faith. It’s something Charlie had once, and he can admit to himself that he would like it again. There’s something about the way Locke talks that is almost soothing: a hymn, a lullaby. Charlie wants to believe that he isn’t weak. Charlie wants to believe that there’s hope, that he can have music back. Charlie wants to believe that what Locke is saying is true.
When Charlie hands his drugs to Locke, he’s ripping out his lungs and giving them away. When he looks up and sees his guitar amongst the debris, he soul is returned to him. As his eyes well up Charlie hears nothing but what his guitar will sound like when he gets it back in his hands.
-=-=-
Time on the island is a bit funny. Or maybe time withdrawing from heroin is what’s funny. Charlie is acutely aware of every minute second: his skin crawls, he sweats, his tum is in knots and everything hurts. Yet he’s disorientated. It seems like weeks since he and Jack were trapped in the cave. Like years since he gave Locke his drugs. Like minutes since he threw them into the fire. Like a lifetime since they crashed into this godforsaken place. But it’s getting easier, and his skin doesn’t crawl so much, and he feels a little less like everyone hates him. Claire doesn’t seem to hate him at all, in fact.
They talk and it’s easy. When Charlie smiles around Claire it’s genuine. And Claire’s smile is always real. It’s never a cover-up. Charlie is determined to help Claire stay safe, to do right by her in this strange place where she is away from her family and her friends and she has this new life inside her. She doesn’t want to leave the beach, and Charlie can understand why, but it’s not safe and Charlie can’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.
He can’t fulfill his end of the bargain he made with her, but he hopes to appeal to her sense of humour. There’s no peanut butter to be found, and far be it from him to deprive a pregnant woman of her most craved foodstuff. When Charlie presents Claire with his pretend jar of peanut butter, she looks at him like he’s mental at first. But then she buys into it, and she plays along. Her smile and her laughter are contagious, and Charlie is reeling; Charlie is caught. The bright piano that Charlie hears when he’s around Claire is playing again.
There was a live acoustic track on Margo’s computer - Bruce Springsteen of all people. Light piano, and a song that always reminded Charlie of freedom and magic. It’s perfect for this moment, because it’s the most magical and innocent moment Charlie’s had in a long time, and Claire is a vision. Charlie can almost see her dancing on a porch like the girl in the song, with this very smile and laughter - somewhere far, far away from their lost and lonely island. Charlie thinks he would like to see her like that someday. For now, seeing her in the caves will have to be good enough. At least it’s safer there.
-=-=-
The sound of Claire screaming is the least musical sound Charlie’s heard since the plane fell out of the sky. Both sounds cut right through him, but before he’s even had that complete thought Charlie is up from the ground and trying to calm her down. Claire is bleeding and making no sense.
Charlie is relieved that it’s a nightmare and not someone trying to kill her, but the whole thing is unsettling, and what’s worse is the effect it’s having on Claire even now that it’s over.
With that iPod, Charlie would be able to get the sound of Claire’s screams out of his head, and maybe shake this feeling of foreboding. Sod that. If Charlie had the iPod, he’d give it to Claire.
-=-=-
There is nothing musical at all in the sound of Claire screaming a second time.
-=-=-
Sitting with a restless Claire, Charlie is reminded of his mum staying up late with him when he was sick. He thinks of the lullabies that made him feel safe and cosy and like the world was a warm snuggly blanket.
Charlie wishes he wasn’t a second-rate back-up singer bassist, so he could sing Claire to sleep.
-=-=-
Standing in the jungle, Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies plays a quiet, yet manic background as Charlie counts to help Claire relax, to breathe. Nobody’s relaxing. Nobody’s breathing properly. Claire looks all right, though. But the baby’s coming. This is insane. No one will get here in time.
But Charlie Pace is not weak. He can do this. They can do this. He can help Claire do this. He’s sure of it.
Claire doesn’t seem so sure. (Little fairy violins - one sugarplum fairy….)
-=-=-
Charlie’s running through the jungle for the hundredth time, and the caves are millions of miles away. Why the fucking hell is everything so bloody far away? Why the hell can’t they have more than one doctor? What is he thinking, leaving Claire in the middle of the jungle?
Charlie sees someone. Thank fuck it’s Ethan and not Sun or Jin. Charlie sends him off to find Jack, and runs back to Claire. She’s talking about promises made to her, how things would be different. And the whole thing seems strange. Charlie begins to wonder if there’s more to this island and this plane crash and Claire’s being here.
But there will be time to ponder fate later. Better to let it be for now. (And doesn’t Let it Be make for a nicer soundtrack?) And Claire’s feeling better now, and she seems willing to go back to the caves, which makes things a little more sensible now, rather than her running about in the jungle.
The relief is nice.
When Ethan returns without Jack, Charlie knows something is very wrong. He can feel it in his gut. He can hear it in Ethan’s voice despite his two simple words.
”Hello, there.”
Charlie wishes a lot of things, doesn’t he.
-=-=-
Everything’s gone wrong. Charlie is fighting. Charlie is losing. Claire is screaming. There’s no sense to anything.
It’s Danny’s zombie movie and the poncy goth video.
It’s he twisting pain of withdrawal and panic and failure and distorted guitars.
It’s bees and skeletons and crashing bass drums.
It’s that girl drowning and the thunder of the waves.
It’s twisting and shouting and guttural screams against a curtain of green. The rain pounding cymbals and the sound system too loud and Charlie’s forgotten to wear his earplugs again.
It’s monsters and polar bears and the insane chime of blood dripping down from the rainforest canopy above.
It’s pain and it’s violin like nails on slate.
The terror is discordant and fills Charlie’s head.
The guilt is the most horrible thing Charlie has ever heard. It’s a crescendo of agony. Charlie may go deaf and blind.
And everything stops.
There is silence. There is darkness.
There is no music. There isn’t anything. Charlie Pace is dead.
-=-=-
Three quarter rest.
-=-=-
A faint sound. A sad sound. No, the sound of sadness. Mournful. A shame, really, that someone should sound so sad, so grief-stricken.
-=-=-
There’s a rhythm being pounded out.
-=-=-
By the time Charlie Pace is alive again, there’s a symphony composed of his breath, his heartbeat, and sobs. There is laughter in counterpoint. It’s a cacophony, to be sure. But quietly, another song. Charlie can barely make it out amidst the noisy business of coming back to life and struggling to stay that way.
Offstage, a piano whispers brightly and Charlie Pace, alive though he may be, is crumbling from the grief of it, though he can’t understand why he should find such a bright melody so hard to bear.
-=-=-
fin
Additonal Notes: my plot device was "spontaneous musical number". i thought i might do something funny with it, but this happened instead. hopefully i don't need to fully explain how i tried to turn it, but if you have questions, let me know. i had more i wanted to do, but it is what it is. maybe someday i'll expand, or find i want to prune.
soundtrack:
1. the beatles - lucy in the sky with diamonds
2. the beatles - i am the walrus
3. the beatles - twist and shout
4. the beatles - blackbird
5. the bangles - a hazy shade of winter (simon and garfunkel cover)
6. godspeed you! black emperor - east hastings
7. patti smith - dancing barefoot (or, the cover by u2)
8. the monster mash, and i can't remember who it was. it's a novelty tune.
9. driveshaft - you all, everybody
10. the beatles - help!
11. nine inch nails - the perfect drug
12. john williams - jaws theme
13. bruce springsteen - thunder road (live, acoustic)
14. from the nutcracker - dance of the sugarplum fairies
15. the beatles - let it be
Author: daftavocado
Fandom: LOST: Charlie, Claire, assorted others
Spoilers: Season 1, up to and including episode 11, (All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues). gap-filler of a sort.
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 3704
Notes: written for the Suspension of Disbelief Challenge. (suspended_fic) thank you to jillybinks and shanalle, because this was a great challenge. :) complete absence of beta, because i finally finished writing five minutes ago, which was fifteen minutes before deadline, and that seems unfair to put on a beta. though mistakes are unfair to put on a reader, but i'm hoping you'll forgive me if you find any glaring ones. (i won't forgive myself, so i've got that covered, i swear!
Warnings: angst. drugs. death. violence. it's the first half of season one of LOST. if you feel comfortable with the spoilers, you'll likely be comfortable with the content.
Additonal Notes at the end of the fic.
Feedback: welcome.
He’d sold his iPod ages ago, for fifty quid. He had, in fact, sold two others before that, for eighty quid and sixty quid respectively. Those iPods weren’t his. He’d… found them… at the pub. He wished now that he hadn’t sold his. Truth be told, he preferred to choose what songs to listen to, rather than be bombarded with whatever music his subconscious chose to treat him to.
But Charlie wished a lot of things, now didn’t he.
-=-=-
Bloody airplanes. Bloody buggering airplanes and the quickest fucking mode of transportation back to fucking L.A. Fucking Liam and fucking Driveshaft. Sodding lump in his shoe making it impossible to fucking tap his fucking foot. Sodding hot airplanes. Cunting international law. How long til the bloody plane lands? Can’t fucking wait that long. Can’t not wait that long. Might get caught. Fucking tum in knots.
If Charlie had his iPod, Charlie would be listening to The Beatles. Charlie would be listening to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, or I am the Walrus. As it is, Charlie has no iPod and so Charlie doesn’t get to choose his music, and so his head is filled with Twist and Shout because really, that’s what he’s likely to do if he doesn’t maintain some semblance of self-control.
He can picture it, even. A fit. Twisting so violently in his seat that he ends up shouting in a puddle on the floor of the plane, gibbering like an idiot when his throat is finally too sore to keep shouting.
Shake it up, baby, now (Shake it up, baby)
Twist and shout (Twist and shout)
C’mon c’mon c’mon, baby, now (C’mon, baby)
You’ve got to get out.
That’s not the lyric. Charlie knows it’s not the lyric. Charlie taps his ring insanely on the armrest.
-=-=-
In the loo, Twist and Shout is on its way to Blackbird and Charlie’s this close to oblivion. Just a bit before he gets caught. Just a bit to hold him over. Dumping one’s stash is painful but probably not as painful as an Aussie prison cell. Or an American prison cell. He can hold out for now, and get hooked up after he gets back to L.A. He can do this. Charlie Pace is not as weak as he seems. Charlie Pace is not weak.
But the gentle picking of the guitar strings is suddenly replaced with distortion and clanging and discordant notes as Charlie slams up against the ceiling. Mother Mary, what the fuck?
-=-=-
Charlie is terrified. He lost the little bit of Blackbird bliss before he scrambled out of the toilet, dodged carts in the aisle, and belted himself into a seat. His brain is screaming electric guitar at him, a frenzied Bangles’ cover song from the eighties. His brain doesn’t even have the decency to give him the Simon and Garfunkel original. There are people around him screaming, Charlie is screaming, and the plane seems to be screaming. Even as Charlie realises the plane is ripping apart, the reference of the song in his head is not lost on him. Less Than Zero was a fucking depressing film. (Time, time, time, see what’s become of me)
Charlie knows that even if he isn’t sucked out of the airplane, and survives the impact, he doesn’t have a hope in the world because he’s between Australia and America and he doesn’t swim.
Charlie Pace is about to die.
-=-=-
This isn’t what Charlie expected. And don’t be mistaken, Charlie’s glad to be alive. But not everyone is as lucky as Charlie, and he’s walking around in a daze staring at dead bodies. At first, that’s all he sees. Dead bodies and fire and big chunks of metal that half an hour ago were fused together and safely surrounding him thousands of feet in the air. Now it’s unrecognizable.
One night last year, Charlie sat in Margo’s flat watching that Danny Boyle not-a-zombie flick. He’d tried to resist, because he had a thing against Danny Boyle after that Trainspotting shite made him all depressed and soul-searching when Dave made him watch it, but Margo insisted. She said something about how scary films made her want to cling, and Charlie was randy as fuck. How can you argue with a scary film, a pretty girl, and the promise of her heroin after a ride? You can’t, that’s how - p.s. sorry God, you’ll forgive me tomorrow, won’t you?
But now Charlie wishes he hadn’t given in, even though the sex was hot and the heroin was better, because standing here and looking around, all he can hear is the melancholy guitar from that godspeed you! black emperor song that wasn’t even on the bloody soundtrack album. That Murphy bloke in the film was walking around London and there was nothing but destruction around him, death and overturned vehicles and no sign of anything alive. Charlie doesn’t want this to be his Danny Boyle London headtrip, but he doesn’t see anyone else moving and he can’t hear anything but the “London’s empty” song and fuck, but he’s lonely and - oh! Wait! That girl is alive. Screaming a bit, too. Might fancy a bit of skirt like that, though this isn’t the time for it, really, given the doom and destruction and planes falling out of the sky and suchlike. Might do to give her his mobile number later, though.
Now that he’s seen and heard someone besides himself, Charlie feels a little hopeful that this won’t be his end-of-the-world film and sure enough, there are others running around and yelling and lying around and crying and some are bleeding but not everyone’s dead so the threat of zombies seems right out, then.
Charlie is as shocked as anyone when a piece of the plane almost falls on him. Time to be a little less complacent.
-=-=-
Hours later, and Charlie has no guitar. The shock has worn off, and Charlie wants his guitar to not be broken into a million bits or floating away or eaten by sharks. Floating away would be the best of these three options, because there’s still some hope, then, isn’t there, but the ideal would be for the guitar to be right here with Charlie (and a bit of junk). Charlie’s trying not to think too much about the junk. Or his guitar. He’s trying to think about that pretty blonde girl over there with the belly. Somewhere deep in his gut Charlie feels like she’s important, like she might be the answer to everything, because a baby means hope and a baby is a perfect new life and a perfect new beginning. She’s pretty to look at, and truth be told Charlie wants something to believe in because the past few days have been shite and now he doesn’t have his guitar or his junk. All he has is a brother that’s betrayed him, the lack of a recording contract, and the inability to look at himself in the mirror with any amount of dignity. Charlie wants to think about hope, about when they’re rescued, about new beginnings and about that pretty girl’s baby.
But his brain isn’t helping too much, because it’s blaring Patti Smith at him, or the U2 cover. It’s not his version because he hasn’t nailed it yet, though he’s played it a fair amount.
The promise that she
Is blessed among women
Maybe Charlie should think about something else. Blessed among women might be a little out of his reach. There’s that bit of skirt again. She doesn’t seem particularly holy. Maybe a little more realistic. Maybe slightly more expensive. She’s got that Paris Hilton thing going on. Maybe she’s got some drugs. She obviously doesn’t have a guitar (Don’t think about the guitar), but she could be holding something. Something besides nail varnish, though she’s making good use of it on her toes.
Charlie tries not to wonder why a miserable excuse for a human being like himself has survived a plane crash. Maybe the question is why he was on a plane that crashed in the first place. Maybe it’s punishment. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe he should be thinking about making up for his wrongdoings or making plans for how to use his life for the greater good since he’s still alive and all. Maybe he’ll just keep writing on his fingers.
Maybe he can find the bit of plane that has the drugs he never quite flushed down the toilet.
-=-=-
Charlie knows his brain is out to get him when he can’t get Monster Mash out of his head as he tries to catch some sleep and tries to ignore the fact that there’s Something in the jungle. Charlie also tries to ignore the fact that mash rhymes with stash and he really wishes he had just a little bit right now. Just a little bit to get through the night.
-=-=-
Charlie is on a journey with his new mates. So he just met them less than a day ago after falling out of the sky and nearly dying several times, but they could be his mates if he plays his cards right. Charlie is singing his vocals from his biggest hit and maybe Kate’s amused but Jack looks at him like he’s a waste of time.
That’s not really a surprise.
-=-=-
Charlie is decidedly not crying with relief when they find the front of the plane. Nor is he crying with trepidation at the notion that he may not find what he’s looking for. He’s not crying, full stop. He may be shaking a bit. (Shake it up baby, now.) It’s probably due to the very particular lack of drugs that isn’t moving through his bloodstream. Later, he’ll feel guilty for not helping Jack and Kate look for important rescue-related things. Later, he’ll feel small and apologetic for snapping at them. Later, he’ll feel shock and horror about the dead bodies he’s climbing over. Later, after he finds his junk and gets his fix.
-=-=-
Charlie is running. (Help! I need somebody! Help! Not just anybody! Help!) Charlie is falling. Kate is gone. Jack is gone. The pilot is gone and that is perhaps the most disturbing thing. Until the pilot isn’t gone anymore and Charlie and Kate are standing beneath his body. Charlie doesn’t understand what the bloody hell is happening. Everything is just fractured notes falling off the scale with a bit of a cymbal crash.
-=-=-
Charlie has more friends. Perhaps this plane crash thing isn’t so bad after all. Charlie has more friends now than he did three days ago. Unfortunately, the nearest pubs (do they have pubs in Fiji?) are hundreds and hundreds of miles away, so no pub crawl tonight, and none of Charlie’s new mates will have heroin when he runs out. Heroin is nice, though, isn’t it, and it’s nice that Charlie has some now. Things were getting a bit tense around here.
Charlie and his new friends (including Shannon the skirt, who practically invited Charlie along) are climbing and walking and climbing some more but Charlie feels good about it. Charlie feels good about it until they’re running again and then that violent bloke Sawyer is shooting a polar bear.
Charlie wishes he still had his iPod, because lately all he hears is madness when he’d really like to hear some Bowie instead.
-=-=-
Things just seem to get crazier. Charlie is thinking about that Nine Inch Nails video with the vulture and the absinthe and the staccato editing in perfect time with the beat of the music. Liam had dismissed absinthe ages ago as being too “poncy goth”, and Charlie had never tried it. He’d settle for some now. Time on the island is always flashing through Charlie’s head just like the video. Monsters in the jungle. Polar bears. Sixteen year-old pleas for help. Drowning people. Midges. Boars. He knows the song is about relationship troubles, but women, though nice, have never been Charlie’s perfect drug.
Claire is a nice girl. Claire may be the only person on this island lonelier than Charlie. They talked the day she was sick, and she said that nobody looked her in the eye, that she scared people. Charlie likes the idea of making Claire feel better; he feels more comfortable around her than around most other people. Claire is nice, and probably soft, and she reminds Charlie of piano music played brightly (it says so on the sheet music; who plays the bass brightly? No one.)
Except maybe around Claire, Charlie is nervous all the time now. He’s going to get caught. Someone’s going to see him with his little bag and his dwindling supply. Everyone’s opinion of him as a useless sodding nuisance is going to be lowered even more when they find out he’s a junkie. Someone else is going to be killed. No one is coming to rescue them. A bloody fucking mammoth is going to come to life under the ground and rise up and eat them all.
Or worse, he’s going to run out. Charlie knows that without some heroin to hold him together, everything falls apart.
The poncy goth video in Charlie’s head is getting more involved. Now he can add bees. And skeletons. And more shots making him out to be the git he is; shots of him saying stupid shite because he never thinks before he opens his mouth. Charlie needs something to take the edge off. More and more these past few days, Charlie is aware of just how much he misses his guitar. Without it, there is nothing but the drugs he has left to help him ward off panic and misery. He needs something, now. Now, now, now, now, now.
-=-=-
Charlie saw Jaws as a child, and the theme is admittedly creepy. It’s what he hears in his head when Locke the hunter-scout is following him around in the jungle. When you hear those first bass notes grow ever more menacing as the tension builds, you can feel it under your skin: it’s inevitable the shark is going to catch you. Charlie knows now that his inevitable destruction is about to happen. Locke has him sorted and there’s nothing Charlie can do about it.
Locke talks about faith. It’s something Charlie had once, and he can admit to himself that he would like it again. There’s something about the way Locke talks that is almost soothing: a hymn, a lullaby. Charlie wants to believe that he isn’t weak. Charlie wants to believe that there’s hope, that he can have music back. Charlie wants to believe that what Locke is saying is true.
When Charlie hands his drugs to Locke, he’s ripping out his lungs and giving them away. When he looks up and sees his guitar amongst the debris, he soul is returned to him. As his eyes well up Charlie hears nothing but what his guitar will sound like when he gets it back in his hands.
-=-=-
Time on the island is a bit funny. Or maybe time withdrawing from heroin is what’s funny. Charlie is acutely aware of every minute second: his skin crawls, he sweats, his tum is in knots and everything hurts. Yet he’s disorientated. It seems like weeks since he and Jack were trapped in the cave. Like years since he gave Locke his drugs. Like minutes since he threw them into the fire. Like a lifetime since they crashed into this godforsaken place. But it’s getting easier, and his skin doesn’t crawl so much, and he feels a little less like everyone hates him. Claire doesn’t seem to hate him at all, in fact.
They talk and it’s easy. When Charlie smiles around Claire it’s genuine. And Claire’s smile is always real. It’s never a cover-up. Charlie is determined to help Claire stay safe, to do right by her in this strange place where she is away from her family and her friends and she has this new life inside her. She doesn’t want to leave the beach, and Charlie can understand why, but it’s not safe and Charlie can’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.
He can’t fulfill his end of the bargain he made with her, but he hopes to appeal to her sense of humour. There’s no peanut butter to be found, and far be it from him to deprive a pregnant woman of her most craved foodstuff. When Charlie presents Claire with his pretend jar of peanut butter, she looks at him like he’s mental at first. But then she buys into it, and she plays along. Her smile and her laughter are contagious, and Charlie is reeling; Charlie is caught. The bright piano that Charlie hears when he’s around Claire is playing again.
There was a live acoustic track on Margo’s computer - Bruce Springsteen of all people. Light piano, and a song that always reminded Charlie of freedom and magic. It’s perfect for this moment, because it’s the most magical and innocent moment Charlie’s had in a long time, and Claire is a vision. Charlie can almost see her dancing on a porch like the girl in the song, with this very smile and laughter - somewhere far, far away from their lost and lonely island. Charlie thinks he would like to see her like that someday. For now, seeing her in the caves will have to be good enough. At least it’s safer there.
-=-=-
The sound of Claire screaming is the least musical sound Charlie’s heard since the plane fell out of the sky. Both sounds cut right through him, but before he’s even had that complete thought Charlie is up from the ground and trying to calm her down. Claire is bleeding and making no sense.
Charlie is relieved that it’s a nightmare and not someone trying to kill her, but the whole thing is unsettling, and what’s worse is the effect it’s having on Claire even now that it’s over.
With that iPod, Charlie would be able to get the sound of Claire’s screams out of his head, and maybe shake this feeling of foreboding. Sod that. If Charlie had the iPod, he’d give it to Claire.
-=-=-
There is nothing musical at all in the sound of Claire screaming a second time.
-=-=-
Sitting with a restless Claire, Charlie is reminded of his mum staying up late with him when he was sick. He thinks of the lullabies that made him feel safe and cosy and like the world was a warm snuggly blanket.
Charlie wishes he wasn’t a second-rate back-up singer bassist, so he could sing Claire to sleep.
-=-=-
Standing in the jungle, Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies plays a quiet, yet manic background as Charlie counts to help Claire relax, to breathe. Nobody’s relaxing. Nobody’s breathing properly. Claire looks all right, though. But the baby’s coming. This is insane. No one will get here in time.
But Charlie Pace is not weak. He can do this. They can do this. He can help Claire do this. He’s sure of it.
Claire doesn’t seem so sure. (Little fairy violins - one sugarplum fairy….)
-=-=-
Charlie’s running through the jungle for the hundredth time, and the caves are millions of miles away. Why the fucking hell is everything so bloody far away? Why the hell can’t they have more than one doctor? What is he thinking, leaving Claire in the middle of the jungle?
Charlie sees someone. Thank fuck it’s Ethan and not Sun or Jin. Charlie sends him off to find Jack, and runs back to Claire. She’s talking about promises made to her, how things would be different. And the whole thing seems strange. Charlie begins to wonder if there’s more to this island and this plane crash and Claire’s being here.
But there will be time to ponder fate later. Better to let it be for now. (And doesn’t Let it Be make for a nicer soundtrack?) And Claire’s feeling better now, and she seems willing to go back to the caves, which makes things a little more sensible now, rather than her running about in the jungle.
The relief is nice.
When Ethan returns without Jack, Charlie knows something is very wrong. He can feel it in his gut. He can hear it in Ethan’s voice despite his two simple words.
”Hello, there.”
Charlie wishes a lot of things, doesn’t he.
-=-=-
Everything’s gone wrong. Charlie is fighting. Charlie is losing. Claire is screaming. There’s no sense to anything.
It’s Danny’s zombie movie and the poncy goth video.
It’s he twisting pain of withdrawal and panic and failure and distorted guitars.
It’s bees and skeletons and crashing bass drums.
It’s that girl drowning and the thunder of the waves.
It’s twisting and shouting and guttural screams against a curtain of green. The rain pounding cymbals and the sound system too loud and Charlie’s forgotten to wear his earplugs again.
It’s monsters and polar bears and the insane chime of blood dripping down from the rainforest canopy above.
It’s pain and it’s violin like nails on slate.
The terror is discordant and fills Charlie’s head.
The guilt is the most horrible thing Charlie has ever heard. It’s a crescendo of agony. Charlie may go deaf and blind.
And everything stops.
There is silence. There is darkness.
There is no music. There isn’t anything. Charlie Pace is dead.
-=-=-
Three quarter rest.
-=-=-
A faint sound. A sad sound. No, the sound of sadness. Mournful. A shame, really, that someone should sound so sad, so grief-stricken.
-=-=-
There’s a rhythm being pounded out.
-=-=-
By the time Charlie Pace is alive again, there’s a symphony composed of his breath, his heartbeat, and sobs. There is laughter in counterpoint. It’s a cacophony, to be sure. But quietly, another song. Charlie can barely make it out amidst the noisy business of coming back to life and struggling to stay that way.
Offstage, a piano whispers brightly and Charlie Pace, alive though he may be, is crumbling from the grief of it, though he can’t understand why he should find such a bright melody so hard to bear.
-=-=-
fin
Additonal Notes: my plot device was "spontaneous musical number". i thought i might do something funny with it, but this happened instead. hopefully i don't need to fully explain how i tried to turn it, but if you have questions, let me know. i had more i wanted to do, but it is what it is. maybe someday i'll expand, or find i want to prune.
soundtrack:
1. the beatles - lucy in the sky with diamonds
2. the beatles - i am the walrus
3. the beatles - twist and shout
4. the beatles - blackbird
5. the bangles - a hazy shade of winter (simon and garfunkel cover)
6. godspeed you! black emperor - east hastings
7. patti smith - dancing barefoot (or, the cover by u2)
8. the monster mash, and i can't remember who it was. it's a novelty tune.
9. driveshaft - you all, everybody
10. the beatles - help!
11. nine inch nails - the perfect drug
12. john williams - jaws theme
13. bruce springsteen - thunder road (live, acoustic)
14. from the nutcracker - dance of the sugarplum fairies
15. the beatles - let it be