Lost fic: Gone [Sawyer, PG]
Lost: Does not belong to me.
Notes: Using for fanfic100 #79, When. Fits the lostsquee Season 4 Hiatus Challenge #3, Episode Title Tabula Rasa.
Spoilers: Will make much more sense if you've seen 4x5 "The Constant."
Gone
by eponine119
March 25, 2008
He didn't know how, but he knew when.
One minute he was on the boat. Gettin' rescued, whether he wanted to or not. Whether he deserved to or not.
Next minute he was standing in the crisp Tennessee sunshine, filtered through the fine particles that gave the mountains their smokey name. His hair wasn't hanging on his neck or in his eyes, and his skin was pale and white and if he could have looked in the mirror, uncreased. He wasn't especially clean, but he was cleaner than the island. His clothes clung unfamiliarly to his body.
He was nineteen.
Just like Freaky fucking Friday, he was nineteen. Buzzed from the thin clean air and the sunshine and the whiskey at dinner and the freedom. There was a girl in his car, curled up snug in the back. He didn't remember her name, but he knew the name he'd claimed as his own, for the very first time. The sick roll in his belly when he said it, the same sick roll he felt when it was all over, when the deed was finally done and his journey was finished.
It was in the pocket of his jeans, the letter. Odd how quickly he'd grown used to its absence, on the island, once it was gone, replaced by a bigger millstone around his neck, the one that said murderer. The paper still felt solid in his fingers, not the soft rag he'd carried with him on the plane. He could pull it out, but he didn't. He knew the words by heart. The sight of them was burned into his eyes. He could see the ink dancing whenever he closed them. Even now.
He could pull the girl out of the car. Tell her what he planned to do, or tell her to get lost. He could free himself. He remembered some bullshit dialogue on the island, tabula rasa, clean slate, carte blanche. Maybe that wasn't real. Maybe this was real. But he could feel the sweat slick skin and the chains under his hands, and he knew what was real.
He closed his eyes and waited for the island to take him back.
End.
Notes: Using for fanfic100 #79, When. Fits the lostsquee Season 4 Hiatus Challenge #3, Episode Title Tabula Rasa.
Spoilers: Will make much more sense if you've seen 4x5 "The Constant."
Gone
by eponine119
March 25, 2008
He didn't know how, but he knew when.
One minute he was on the boat. Gettin' rescued, whether he wanted to or not. Whether he deserved to or not.
Next minute he was standing in the crisp Tennessee sunshine, filtered through the fine particles that gave the mountains their smokey name. His hair wasn't hanging on his neck or in his eyes, and his skin was pale and white and if he could have looked in the mirror, uncreased. He wasn't especially clean, but he was cleaner than the island. His clothes clung unfamiliarly to his body.
He was nineteen.
Just like Freaky fucking Friday, he was nineteen. Buzzed from the thin clean air and the sunshine and the whiskey at dinner and the freedom. There was a girl in his car, curled up snug in the back. He didn't remember her name, but he knew the name he'd claimed as his own, for the very first time. The sick roll in his belly when he said it, the same sick roll he felt when it was all over, when the deed was finally done and his journey was finished.
It was in the pocket of his jeans, the letter. Odd how quickly he'd grown used to its absence, on the island, once it was gone, replaced by a bigger millstone around his neck, the one that said murderer. The paper still felt solid in his fingers, not the soft rag he'd carried with him on the plane. He could pull it out, but he didn't. He knew the words by heart. The sight of them was burned into his eyes. He could see the ink dancing whenever he closed them. Even now.
He could pull the girl out of the car. Tell her what he planned to do, or tell her to get lost. He could free himself. He remembered some bullshit dialogue on the island, tabula rasa, clean slate, carte blanche. Maybe that wasn't real. Maybe this was real. But he could feel the sweat slick skin and the chains under his hands, and he knew what was real.
He closed his eyes and waited for the island to take him back.
End.