fic, Lost: Way Down In The Hole (Desmond), very light R, for elliotsmelliot
Title: Way Down In The Hole
Rating: very light R for one thing that happens at some point
Characters: Desmond
Words: 3835
Summary: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Spoilers: up to LTDA.
Disclaimer: if it was mine I’d have never been so sadistic towards Desmond *pouts*
A/N: for Queen elliotsmelliot at lostsquee with all of my best courtsy wishes and shared love for the man inside the blue shirt, even if he doesn’t wear it here. Not really of the happy sort and probably not very in line with the prompt, but hereby is Desmond’s staying in the hatch after the plane crashes. ♥ Using also for 10_shakespeare, "I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty." Title stolen from the Queen-knows-what ;)
Kelvin: You've been shaving everyday for the last 3 years. You need to live a little, let go.
Desmond: I'm never going to let go, brother.
Kelvin: That’s the spirit.
It’s done and he wishes he never set foot outside.
If only because now he remembers what breathing fresh air feels like and while it shouldn’t be a thought making him want to throw up, it does indeed and his hands can’t stop shaking. They don’t leave his face, he can’t seem to move, the computer screen fixed in front of him, a bright green > blinking in front of him.
He hears a low noise and he knows that it’s 107 minutes now.
Oh my God, he starts to think, then figures he might just as well stop here. He has this idea that if God exist either he doesn’t care about him or he’s giving him payback. The first option is way less unsettling.
Day four
Desmond ignores the dark shadows under his eyes and stands up; only 74 minutes passed, he knows because the countdown is at 34, but he hasn’ managed to sleep this round. Might as well call it quits and shave.
He didn’t renounce it before and he won’t renounce it now.
The soft noise starts again. 33.
He heads to the bathroom, noticing how his stubble is menacing to turn into a full beard; not a chance he’s going to let it happen. He takes a tube of Dharma shaving cream, pours some into his hand, then applies it slowly over his cheeks.
He feels a certain relief while his hand steadily holds the razor and lightly scrapes away the white foam; then he washes his face, trying not to think about how would it feel if he could just use the water from some stream outside and not this one. It’s not like he doesn’t know by heart that disgusting sulfurous taste, but he shakes the thought away and steps out of the room after drying his now smooth skin.
The timer says 10.
He waits until it starts, then his fingers go automatically to the keyboard. 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108 minutes, done.
He eats a Dharma granola bar just because he knows he needs it even if he isn’t hungry at all. He walks out to the record player, trying to find something he hasn’t listened to already. Well, right, he listened to everything there, not such luck. Maybe something he hasn’t listened to in a while.
Geronimo Jackson isn’t an option, especially since Kelvin liked them and...
No. Won’t work like this.
If he hears Mama Cass again he’s going to break something. Fuck, he hates modern music so much. He hates Seventies music, he hates it. He wonders if going back to his boat to retrieve his Mozart records would be taking too much of a risk.
He figures it is and it’s the first time in four days that he has wanted to cry.
After at least half an hour or more of fidgeting, he figures that Joni Mitchell is the lesser of evils and puts Blue on, even if the last thing he needs is a record sung by a blond woman which happened to be Penny’s favorite singer. But that’s exactly why he hasn’t listened to it in a while and he just can’t deal with all the rest.
He manages to arrive at the second to last song just fine. He cleans up a bit, he eats another granola bar, he reads a bit of some book he already knows by heart. He manages just bloody fine. Until that point.
Just before our love got lost you said, I am as constant as a northern star, and I said, constantly in the darkness, where's that at?
He was putting some dishes away, a couple; they fall to the ground shattering in a too great amount of pieces for him to count and next thing he knows he’s sitting against the kitchen counter, small sobs shaking him even if he isn’t really crying, or at least tears aren’t escaping from his eyes. He thinks he might have cut one hand, if only because there’s blood on the floor.
I remember that time that you told me, you said love is touching souls, surely you touched mine, ‘cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.
He tries not to pay attention and stands up, picking a broom and shutting that song out of his head. He cleans up the floor, dismissing the sight of his blood; when he’s done, he goes to the bathroom and bandages his hand, at least it’s superficial.
Then the alarm starts again and he heads back to the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day eight
His hand twitches a bit while he shaves, but it’s alright.
It’s really alright, he just needs to concentrate for three seconds and then it disappears. Could be worse, right? Right.
He made a sodding week here and everything is just fine. Just as fine as it can be. Right, maybe he took it too fast and some stubble remained, but it’s alright, too. He’ll shave it off tomorrow.
He thinks it has to be evening. Clock says seven thirty and counter says 103.
Desmond fixes himself a sort of proper meal. Hot Dharma vegetables soup. Sounds nice, right? Nice and tasty enough. He decides he’d rather have it on the couch, though; the kitchen table makes him think about dinners with Kelvin and...
No. He must not think about Kelvin. He has a good mood right now, he can’t afford to ruin it. He just can’t.
He brings the soup to the sofa, leaves it for a second on the table in front of him. He had warmed it in five minutes or so; he might just watch a nice short movie, there are tapes anyway. Why not?
So he chooses The Seven Year Itch, eats while watching it, laughs more or less through it all; as soon as it ends, the alarm starts again.
He stands up, goes to the room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He comes back to the room and picks the plate. He washes it, puts it in its place, then lies again on the sofa, thinking that he could really, really use some sleep right now. He closes his eyes and it’s dreamless and pitch black as he hoped, except that at one point he opens his eyes and wakes up just like that.
The alarm starts again just then and he tries not to think about what does this mean. He stands up, inserts the numbers again, goes back to the sofa but he’s awake now, just awake and isn’t it just bloody perfect.
He considers another movie, then discards it because he just doesn’t feel like it anymore, stands up, goes to the records’ shelf.
Fine, he can listen to some music. Some feel good stuff maybe, and who cares if he heard it recently or not.
He thinks that Creedence Clearwater Revival could just fit the bill and they do until the damned second to last track. Then as soon as Proud Mary starts he realizes that he has to do a nice thing and not listen to the lyrics.
Left a good job in the city, workin' for The Man every night and day, and I never lost one minute of sleepin', worryin' 'bout the way things might have been.
“That’d be a lucky fellow.”, he mutters, well aware that he has lost way too much sleep over the way things might have been.
It’s obvious that he made every possible wrong choice he could.
He puts it back up nonetheless and as soon as Good Golly Miss Molly is over, of course, the alarm starts again.
He shuts the player off and he’s back to the computer room again.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day fifteen
He stands in front of the mirror, wearing only his trousers, a pair of scissors shaking between his fingers; he waits for them to get steady before he cuts his hair just that bit they need. To look presentable, no other reason.
Not that he has someone to be presentable to except for Kelvin’s ghost, but that has to be an hallucination and it’s normal, perfectly normal in such a condition.
He cuts neatly, then places the scissors in front of the mirror, nods, ties his hair up in a knot and then steps in front of a full-figure mirror that is on the way out.
His hands shake again while he puts his trousers down and steps out of them, looking at himself. He realizes it’s sick, but he needs it once in a while. He needs it to keep his grip with reality and his hands shake even more when he puts his palm against the cool glass of the mirror.
His left one roams over his chest, he feels his muscles tensing and sees them in the reflection, before he looks at his face.
His body is a mighty fine one, he has to say; he has trained, aye, quite some; but for how lean his muscles are, for how strong his arms seem and for how neatly cut his hair is, as soon as he sees the shadows under his eyes and a certain wetness threatening to form tears, he turns on his back and puts up his trousers again. His fingers shake beyond control by now.
There’s a closet. He takes out a nice red shirt, not that Dharma thing, for once he wants to wear a normal one; as soon as he’s done, the alarm beeps. He runs to the room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He runs out of it soon after and takes a couple of breaths. Okay. He’s going to make himself some tea. Maybe he’ll calm down.
He puts the water to boil and then takes a copy of Oliver Twist and starts reading it at some random point, except that he forgets the water and when he hears the whistle he stands up abruptly and runs.
But then as he closes the fire on the stove the pot falls and while only a handful of boiling water hits the skin on his hand, he can’t help screaming in pain as soon as it makes contact. The pot falls to the ground, but at least it was plastic.
He manages to apply some peroxide to his hand a bandage it as best as he can; then he goes back to the kitchen, grabs a rag and wipes the floor from the water which at least now is just warm.
He collapses on the couch when he’s done, feeling too tired to do anything else and realizing that he shouldn’t get tired for such things; he dozes off and then as soon as he opens his eyes on automatic, the alarm starts to beep.
He stands up, his legs shaking, then sits on the chair as soon as he approaches the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day sixteen
He surrenders to Mama Cass because he needs some happy music and apart from the Creedence record he has sort of broken for overplaying there isn’t anything else.
And so he stands the rant about him playing his own special song while he stubbornly tries with the exercise bike for as much as he can stand.
Which becomes less and less with every day that passes but bloody hell, he won’t give up. He has lasted two weeks and two days, he will last as long as he needs and...
The alarm beeps just when he picked up a decent speed. He swears and he thinks he has just ventured into blasphemy territory, then leaves the exercise bike and inserts the number as soon as the timer hits three minutes.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He just wants to sleep, today. Sleep and nothing else.
For a second he hears footsteps over his head.
Hallucination, he thinks closing his eyes and drifting off.
No dreams, thankfully, not until he opens his eyes on automatic, there’s the second of silence and then the alarm rings so loudly that he wants to smash the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He doesn’t even leave the chair then; he falls asleep with his head on the computer desk and when he wakes up, the alarm starts again and then it’s
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108,
he stands up shakily and his back hurts.
Sleeping on a chair isn’t really an intelligent idea.
He reaches the low bunker, then puts his trousers away (not the shirt), sees that it’s eleven in the night and wonders whether he’s ever going to see the stars again.
It’s enough to make him shiver without control and so he dismisses that sensation of someone walking over his head or banging softly on the hatch door, what a stupid hallucination and brings the covers up, relaxing in that frail warmth they bring him and curling up in the bed. He wishes for a second that Penny was there, then bites his lip and closes his eyes, passing out immediately.
His eyes shoot open in a second; and then, the alarm.
For a second he thinks he should just let the world end and wait for it in his warm, nice bunk; but then he stands up, goes barefooted to the computer room, takes a breath and pushes softly on the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day Twenty-Three
What did one snowman say to the other?
Desmond doesn’t even turn, takes a breath and as soon as his hand is steady again, he keeps on shaving. It’s an hallucination, ‘course it is. He isn’t so gone to fall for it.
You've been shaving everyday for the last three years. You need to live a little, let go.
He doesn’t even have new lines. Of course it’s an hallucination.
His hand twitches and he winces as he cuts his skin. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, counts to five.
When he opens his eyes again Kelvin is gone and he finishes shaving without much trouble, not really. He puts the razor down, shakes his head as soon as his eyes end up on his and Penny’s picture; then turns abruptly because if he looks at it too long he feels his eyes burning and he can’t allow it. Not really.
The alarm beeps and thirty seconds later he’s in the computer room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He walks around barefoot and shirtless, he needs to feel the cold floor on his skin or he’s going to get even crazier than he’s bound to get; and the air is just so hot, or maybe it isn’t but that’s how he perceives it anyway, he just can’t keep a shirt on. Also, it feels stale as it has never felt, but that’s probably because he has gone outside.
Bloody hell, outside.
He starts shaking if he thinks about the bare concept of fresh air and sunlight, so he stops thinking about it and tries not to notice how unnaturally pale his skin is whenever he passes in front of some mirror.
He watches another movie.
Casablanca lasts 102 minutes, so it will just do. It will just do and when it’s over he finds himself in tears on the couch even if he has seen it at least five times and found it cheesy each one; too bad that he kind of understood the implications just now and he bites his lip, tasting salt. Not that anyone is there to see him making a fool of himself, except for...
Jesus, Des. You’re really losing it, aren’t you?
“Shut up.”, he murmurs, figuring that Kelvin has to had said something like this once. Or maybe it’s just the clear part of his head speaking. He doesn’t have time to contemplate on it because the alarm, the goddamn alarm, is beeping out again.
He stands up, passing a hand over his eyes, figuring it won’t do much good but at least he’ll see the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He collapses on the couch then, Penny’s face there every time he closes his eyes and at this point he stops to fight it; he imagines them at an airport, him in a trench, her in a nice cream skirt and jacket. He caresses her cheek lightly and just says here’s looking at you and not that I need to get my honor back crap, he can be damned if he’s ever going to think about honor in his life, for as long as it lasts.
He doesn’t even notice that his hand has started taking decisions for herself and has crept under his trousers; he bites his lip and lets it happen, leaving out a muffled cry when he comes without any sort of relief (and now he will have to wash the trousers, he hates laundry, there was a reason for which Kelvin did it) and then buries his head in the first cushion he finds.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the cotton of the cover; three seconds later, the alarm.
His legs shake while he goes to the computer room. He throws his trousers and underwear in the washing machine’s direction, grabs another pair from a pile of clean ones on the floor of the laundry, pulls them up, goes to the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
To hell with it, he thinks then. He goes where all the Almighty Dharma Alcohol Reserve is and opens up a bottle of wine. It’s disgusting, but as long as it gets him drunk he won’t complain.
He’s gone a good half of the way when the alarm beeps again.
And he realizes that he’s going to push that button either sober or drunk when he finds himself back in the computer room. First, he toasts and finishes the bottle up; then he sits on the chair.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day forty-two
Dearest Des, I am writing this letter to you as you leave for prison. And I've hidden in the one place you would turn to in a moment of great desperation. I know you go away with the weight of what happened on your shoulders. And I know the only person who can ever take it off is you. Please don't give up, Des. Because all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us. And you have her. I will wait for you. Always. I love you, Pen.
“It’s gone, it’s all gone!”
He throws the bottle away, it smashes into pieces somewhere and he doesn’t care, not really; he takes his head in his hands and figures that he’s allowed to talk to himself once in a while. He was even beginning to forget the sound of his own voice or something. He doesn’t even bother trying not to cry; he hasn’t seen Kelvin since he opened the liquors cabinet and it’s fine. Really, fine. And now that he knows he would have had her back the second he said yes in the stadium, it’s all for nothing.
In this moment he hates the hatch, the island, that boat, Widmore and the race more than he ever thought possible. The timer is at 50. Good, because if it starts to beep now he’s just going to destroy it and fuck the outside world, if it still exists. Which would be a wild guess now, wouldn’t it?
He’s just so tired, so tired of it all. And when he tries to reach again for the gun he finds out that he can’t. If he killed himself just now Penny wouldn’t ever know it. No one would ever know it and no one would even find him down in that hole, not that it matters because the world would end if he did, or maybe it was all false and it wouldn’t, bloody hell it hurts just if he thinks about it, and no, he just can’t but he can’t even keep on like this and oh fuck this, he thinks standing up and running towards the bookshelves.
He doesn’t know why he starts throwing the books away. He just needs something to throw and they are the safest choice, aren’t they? Once he’d have shivered at the bare idea of ripping a page from a book. Now he couldn’t really care less and...
And then there’s the banging.
His hands start to shake abruptly, more than they ever did since he was down here; he feels terrible, sweat is all over his skin, he just wants to faint but this isn’t an hallucination. It’s someone banging on the hatch door and oh yes, so there’s still someone out there, there is and he can hear someone screaming.
Everything... wanted me... why? ... do this...?
He doesn’t know why he turns the light on. Maybe whoever is out there needs something and he’s really too tired to think about it. He can’t even open it because Kelvin locked it somewhat saying that it could let infected air pass through or something, but there’s the light and he figures it can either do good or be for nothing. No loss, right?
He can’t keep himself from smiling then; the idea that there’s a world outside is just enough to keep on hanging on.
If there was someone outside maybe they want to get in. And if they want to get in maybe he could leave, whoever it is could push the button just for a day at least, maybe he just won’t have to stay here anymore if there really is someone and if they manage to get in.
For the first time he realizes that this could be over.
It’s one in the morning or something of his 42nd day. The alarm beeps.
He takes a breath, goes back to the computer room, feeling somewhat relieved. As much as he can. He doesn’t look in the mirror when he passes it. Tomorrow morning he will get in the bathroom, have a shower, shave, cut his hair again.
For now, his bare feet walk softly on the cold floor, the timer at 2.30; he sits on the chair and closes his eyes. He can type the damned numbers in without needing to watch the keyboard anymore and well, it makes for a small excitement in the whole ordeal, even if he always checks before pushing the last button. He smiles. Then his fingers hit the keys.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
End.
Rating: very light R for one thing that happens at some point
Characters: Desmond
Words: 3835
Summary: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Spoilers: up to LTDA.
Disclaimer: if it was mine I’d have never been so sadistic towards Desmond *pouts*
A/N: for Queen elliotsmelliot at lostsquee with all of my best courtsy wishes and shared love for the man inside the blue shirt, even if he doesn’t wear it here. Not really of the happy sort and probably not very in line with the prompt, but hereby is Desmond’s staying in the hatch after the plane crashes. ♥ Using also for 10_shakespeare, "I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty." Title stolen from the Queen-knows-what ;)
Kelvin: You've been shaving everyday for the last 3 years. You need to live a little, let go.
Desmond: I'm never going to let go, brother.
Kelvin: That’s the spirit.
It’s done and he wishes he never set foot outside.
If only because now he remembers what breathing fresh air feels like and while it shouldn’t be a thought making him want to throw up, it does indeed and his hands can’t stop shaking. They don’t leave his face, he can’t seem to move, the computer screen fixed in front of him, a bright green > blinking in front of him.
He hears a low noise and he knows that it’s 107 minutes now.
Oh my God, he starts to think, then figures he might just as well stop here. He has this idea that if God exist either he doesn’t care about him or he’s giving him payback. The first option is way less unsettling.
Day four
Desmond ignores the dark shadows under his eyes and stands up; only 74 minutes passed, he knows because the countdown is at 34, but he hasn’ managed to sleep this round. Might as well call it quits and shave.
He didn’t renounce it before and he won’t renounce it now.
The soft noise starts again. 33.
He heads to the bathroom, noticing how his stubble is menacing to turn into a full beard; not a chance he’s going to let it happen. He takes a tube of Dharma shaving cream, pours some into his hand, then applies it slowly over his cheeks.
He feels a certain relief while his hand steadily holds the razor and lightly scrapes away the white foam; then he washes his face, trying not to think about how would it feel if he could just use the water from some stream outside and not this one. It’s not like he doesn’t know by heart that disgusting sulfurous taste, but he shakes the thought away and steps out of the room after drying his now smooth skin.
The timer says 10.
He waits until it starts, then his fingers go automatically to the keyboard. 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108 minutes, done.
He eats a Dharma granola bar just because he knows he needs it even if he isn’t hungry at all. He walks out to the record player, trying to find something he hasn’t listened to already. Well, right, he listened to everything there, not such luck. Maybe something he hasn’t listened to in a while.
Geronimo Jackson isn’t an option, especially since Kelvin liked them and...
No. Won’t work like this.
If he hears Mama Cass again he’s going to break something. Fuck, he hates modern music so much. He hates Seventies music, he hates it. He wonders if going back to his boat to retrieve his Mozart records would be taking too much of a risk.
He figures it is and it’s the first time in four days that he has wanted to cry.
After at least half an hour or more of fidgeting, he figures that Joni Mitchell is the lesser of evils and puts Blue on, even if the last thing he needs is a record sung by a blond woman which happened to be Penny’s favorite singer. But that’s exactly why he hasn’t listened to it in a while and he just can’t deal with all the rest.
He manages to arrive at the second to last song just fine. He cleans up a bit, he eats another granola bar, he reads a bit of some book he already knows by heart. He manages just bloody fine. Until that point.
Just before our love got lost you said, I am as constant as a northern star, and I said, constantly in the darkness, where's that at?
He was putting some dishes away, a couple; they fall to the ground shattering in a too great amount of pieces for him to count and next thing he knows he’s sitting against the kitchen counter, small sobs shaking him even if he isn’t really crying, or at least tears aren’t escaping from his eyes. He thinks he might have cut one hand, if only because there’s blood on the floor.
I remember that time that you told me, you said love is touching souls, surely you touched mine, ‘cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.
He tries not to pay attention and stands up, picking a broom and shutting that song out of his head. He cleans up the floor, dismissing the sight of his blood; when he’s done, he goes to the bathroom and bandages his hand, at least it’s superficial.
Then the alarm starts again and he heads back to the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day eight
His hand twitches a bit while he shaves, but it’s alright.
It’s really alright, he just needs to concentrate for three seconds and then it disappears. Could be worse, right? Right.
He made a sodding week here and everything is just fine. Just as fine as it can be. Right, maybe he took it too fast and some stubble remained, but it’s alright, too. He’ll shave it off tomorrow.
He thinks it has to be evening. Clock says seven thirty and counter says 103.
Desmond fixes himself a sort of proper meal. Hot Dharma vegetables soup. Sounds nice, right? Nice and tasty enough. He decides he’d rather have it on the couch, though; the kitchen table makes him think about dinners with Kelvin and...
No. He must not think about Kelvin. He has a good mood right now, he can’t afford to ruin it. He just can’t.
He brings the soup to the sofa, leaves it for a second on the table in front of him. He had warmed it in five minutes or so; he might just watch a nice short movie, there are tapes anyway. Why not?
So he chooses The Seven Year Itch, eats while watching it, laughs more or less through it all; as soon as it ends, the alarm starts again.
He stands up, goes to the room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He comes back to the room and picks the plate. He washes it, puts it in its place, then lies again on the sofa, thinking that he could really, really use some sleep right now. He closes his eyes and it’s dreamless and pitch black as he hoped, except that at one point he opens his eyes and wakes up just like that.
The alarm starts again just then and he tries not to think about what does this mean. He stands up, inserts the numbers again, goes back to the sofa but he’s awake now, just awake and isn’t it just bloody perfect.
He considers another movie, then discards it because he just doesn’t feel like it anymore, stands up, goes to the records’ shelf.
Fine, he can listen to some music. Some feel good stuff maybe, and who cares if he heard it recently or not.
He thinks that Creedence Clearwater Revival could just fit the bill and they do until the damned second to last track. Then as soon as Proud Mary starts he realizes that he has to do a nice thing and not listen to the lyrics.
Left a good job in the city, workin' for The Man every night and day, and I never lost one minute of sleepin', worryin' 'bout the way things might have been.
“That’d be a lucky fellow.”, he mutters, well aware that he has lost way too much sleep over the way things might have been.
It’s obvious that he made every possible wrong choice he could.
He puts it back up nonetheless and as soon as Good Golly Miss Molly is over, of course, the alarm starts again.
He shuts the player off and he’s back to the computer room again.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day fifteen
He stands in front of the mirror, wearing only his trousers, a pair of scissors shaking between his fingers; he waits for them to get steady before he cuts his hair just that bit they need. To look presentable, no other reason.
Not that he has someone to be presentable to except for Kelvin’s ghost, but that has to be an hallucination and it’s normal, perfectly normal in such a condition.
He cuts neatly, then places the scissors in front of the mirror, nods, ties his hair up in a knot and then steps in front of a full-figure mirror that is on the way out.
His hands shake again while he puts his trousers down and steps out of them, looking at himself. He realizes it’s sick, but he needs it once in a while. He needs it to keep his grip with reality and his hands shake even more when he puts his palm against the cool glass of the mirror.
His left one roams over his chest, he feels his muscles tensing and sees them in the reflection, before he looks at his face.
His body is a mighty fine one, he has to say; he has trained, aye, quite some; but for how lean his muscles are, for how strong his arms seem and for how neatly cut his hair is, as soon as he sees the shadows under his eyes and a certain wetness threatening to form tears, he turns on his back and puts up his trousers again. His fingers shake beyond control by now.
There’s a closet. He takes out a nice red shirt, not that Dharma thing, for once he wants to wear a normal one; as soon as he’s done, the alarm beeps. He runs to the room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He runs out of it soon after and takes a couple of breaths. Okay. He’s going to make himself some tea. Maybe he’ll calm down.
He puts the water to boil and then takes a copy of Oliver Twist and starts reading it at some random point, except that he forgets the water and when he hears the whistle he stands up abruptly and runs.
But then as he closes the fire on the stove the pot falls and while only a handful of boiling water hits the skin on his hand, he can’t help screaming in pain as soon as it makes contact. The pot falls to the ground, but at least it was plastic.
He manages to apply some peroxide to his hand a bandage it as best as he can; then he goes back to the kitchen, grabs a rag and wipes the floor from the water which at least now is just warm.
He collapses on the couch when he’s done, feeling too tired to do anything else and realizing that he shouldn’t get tired for such things; he dozes off and then as soon as he opens his eyes on automatic, the alarm starts to beep.
He stands up, his legs shaking, then sits on the chair as soon as he approaches the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day sixteen
He surrenders to Mama Cass because he needs some happy music and apart from the Creedence record he has sort of broken for overplaying there isn’t anything else.
And so he stands the rant about him playing his own special song while he stubbornly tries with the exercise bike for as much as he can stand.
Which becomes less and less with every day that passes but bloody hell, he won’t give up. He has lasted two weeks and two days, he will last as long as he needs and...
The alarm beeps just when he picked up a decent speed. He swears and he thinks he has just ventured into blasphemy territory, then leaves the exercise bike and inserts the number as soon as the timer hits three minutes.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He just wants to sleep, today. Sleep and nothing else.
For a second he hears footsteps over his head.
Hallucination, he thinks closing his eyes and drifting off.
No dreams, thankfully, not until he opens his eyes on automatic, there’s the second of silence and then the alarm rings so loudly that he wants to smash the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He doesn’t even leave the chair then; he falls asleep with his head on the computer desk and when he wakes up, the alarm starts again and then it’s
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108,
he stands up shakily and his back hurts.
Sleeping on a chair isn’t really an intelligent idea.
He reaches the low bunker, then puts his trousers away (not the shirt), sees that it’s eleven in the night and wonders whether he’s ever going to see the stars again.
It’s enough to make him shiver without control and so he dismisses that sensation of someone walking over his head or banging softly on the hatch door, what a stupid hallucination and brings the covers up, relaxing in that frail warmth they bring him and curling up in the bed. He wishes for a second that Penny was there, then bites his lip and closes his eyes, passing out immediately.
His eyes shoot open in a second; and then, the alarm.
For a second he thinks he should just let the world end and wait for it in his warm, nice bunk; but then he stands up, goes barefooted to the computer room, takes a breath and pushes softly on the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day Twenty-Three
What did one snowman say to the other?
Desmond doesn’t even turn, takes a breath and as soon as his hand is steady again, he keeps on shaving. It’s an hallucination, ‘course it is. He isn’t so gone to fall for it.
You've been shaving everyday for the last three years. You need to live a little, let go.
He doesn’t even have new lines. Of course it’s an hallucination.
His hand twitches and he winces as he cuts his skin. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, counts to five.
When he opens his eyes again Kelvin is gone and he finishes shaving without much trouble, not really. He puts the razor down, shakes his head as soon as his eyes end up on his and Penny’s picture; then turns abruptly because if he looks at it too long he feels his eyes burning and he can’t allow it. Not really.
The alarm beeps and thirty seconds later he’s in the computer room.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He walks around barefoot and shirtless, he needs to feel the cold floor on his skin or he’s going to get even crazier than he’s bound to get; and the air is just so hot, or maybe it isn’t but that’s how he perceives it anyway, he just can’t keep a shirt on. Also, it feels stale as it has never felt, but that’s probably because he has gone outside.
Bloody hell, outside.
He starts shaking if he thinks about the bare concept of fresh air and sunlight, so he stops thinking about it and tries not to notice how unnaturally pale his skin is whenever he passes in front of some mirror.
He watches another movie.
Casablanca lasts 102 minutes, so it will just do. It will just do and when it’s over he finds himself in tears on the couch even if he has seen it at least five times and found it cheesy each one; too bad that he kind of understood the implications just now and he bites his lip, tasting salt. Not that anyone is there to see him making a fool of himself, except for...
Jesus, Des. You’re really losing it, aren’t you?
“Shut up.”, he murmurs, figuring that Kelvin has to had said something like this once. Or maybe it’s just the clear part of his head speaking. He doesn’t have time to contemplate on it because the alarm, the goddamn alarm, is beeping out again.
He stands up, passing a hand over his eyes, figuring it won’t do much good but at least he’ll see the keyboard.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
He collapses on the couch then, Penny’s face there every time he closes his eyes and at this point he stops to fight it; he imagines them at an airport, him in a trench, her in a nice cream skirt and jacket. He caresses her cheek lightly and just says here’s looking at you and not that I need to get my honor back crap, he can be damned if he’s ever going to think about honor in his life, for as long as it lasts.
He doesn’t even notice that his hand has started taking decisions for herself and has crept under his trousers; he bites his lip and lets it happen, leaving out a muffled cry when he comes without any sort of relief (and now he will have to wash the trousers, he hates laundry, there was a reason for which Kelvin did it) and then buries his head in the first cushion he finds.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the cotton of the cover; three seconds later, the alarm.
His legs shake while he goes to the computer room. He throws his trousers and underwear in the washing machine’s direction, grabs another pair from a pile of clean ones on the floor of the laundry, pulls them up, goes to the computer.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
To hell with it, he thinks then. He goes where all the Almighty Dharma Alcohol Reserve is and opens up a bottle of wine. It’s disgusting, but as long as it gets him drunk he won’t complain.
He’s gone a good half of the way when the alarm beeps again.
And he realizes that he’s going to push that button either sober or drunk when he finds himself back in the computer room. First, he toasts and finishes the bottle up; then he sits on the chair.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
Day forty-two
Dearest Des, I am writing this letter to you as you leave for prison. And I've hidden in the one place you would turn to in a moment of great desperation. I know you go away with the weight of what happened on your shoulders. And I know the only person who can ever take it off is you. Please don't give up, Des. Because all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us. And you have her. I will wait for you. Always. I love you, Pen.
“It’s gone, it’s all gone!”
He throws the bottle away, it smashes into pieces somewhere and he doesn’t care, not really; he takes his head in his hands and figures that he’s allowed to talk to himself once in a while. He was even beginning to forget the sound of his own voice or something. He doesn’t even bother trying not to cry; he hasn’t seen Kelvin since he opened the liquors cabinet and it’s fine. Really, fine. And now that he knows he would have had her back the second he said yes in the stadium, it’s all for nothing.
In this moment he hates the hatch, the island, that boat, Widmore and the race more than he ever thought possible. The timer is at 50. Good, because if it starts to beep now he’s just going to destroy it and fuck the outside world, if it still exists. Which would be a wild guess now, wouldn’t it?
He’s just so tired, so tired of it all. And when he tries to reach again for the gun he finds out that he can’t. If he killed himself just now Penny wouldn’t ever know it. No one would ever know it and no one would even find him down in that hole, not that it matters because the world would end if he did, or maybe it was all false and it wouldn’t, bloody hell it hurts just if he thinks about it, and no, he just can’t but he can’t even keep on like this and oh fuck this, he thinks standing up and running towards the bookshelves.
He doesn’t know why he starts throwing the books away. He just needs something to throw and they are the safest choice, aren’t they? Once he’d have shivered at the bare idea of ripping a page from a book. Now he couldn’t really care less and...
And then there’s the banging.
His hands start to shake abruptly, more than they ever did since he was down here; he feels terrible, sweat is all over his skin, he just wants to faint but this isn’t an hallucination. It’s someone banging on the hatch door and oh yes, so there’s still someone out there, there is and he can hear someone screaming.
Everything... wanted me... why? ... do this...?
He doesn’t know why he turns the light on. Maybe whoever is out there needs something and he’s really too tired to think about it. He can’t even open it because Kelvin locked it somewhat saying that it could let infected air pass through or something, but there’s the light and he figures it can either do good or be for nothing. No loss, right?
He can’t keep himself from smiling then; the idea that there’s a world outside is just enough to keep on hanging on.
If there was someone outside maybe they want to get in. And if they want to get in maybe he could leave, whoever it is could push the button just for a day at least, maybe he just won’t have to stay here anymore if there really is someone and if they manage to get in.
For the first time he realizes that this could be over.
It’s one in the morning or something of his 42nd day. The alarm beeps.
He takes a breath, goes back to the computer room, feeling somewhat relieved. As much as he can. He doesn’t look in the mirror when he passes it. Tomorrow morning he will get in the bathroom, have a shower, shave, cut his hair again.
For now, his bare feet walk softly on the cold floor, the timer at 2.30; he sits on the chair and closes his eyes. He can type the damned numbers in without needing to watch the keyboard anymore and well, it makes for a small excitement in the whole ordeal, even if he always checks before pushing the last button. He smiles. Then his fingers hit the keys.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, execute, 108.
End.