hurley, ben
hurley, ben
PG-13
post-"Live Together, Die Alone"
Hurley wakes up now some nights, heart thumping him out of a deep sleep, gooseflesh in the eighty-five degree heat, and somehow a cold sweat soaking through his shirt. Sometimes he feels the itch of a burlap sack over his face, and that itch always sounds like the man's voice, so calm but just as muffling, blinding, terrifying.
He was the man who'd killed Libby. At least that's how Hurley likes to think about it. He doesn't want to believe Michael could do something like that. Someone who lived among them every day, and they didn't know.
Of course, Ben had lived with them the same way, unknown. Except there were a chosen few that knew, the ones who always took it upon themselves to understand things. Hurley likes to think he would've seen it in his eyes. That moment of surety makes his stomach seize up like a fist. But he knows he wouldn't have known. And, apparently, knowing never did anybody any good. Simply knowing never stopped a thing, certainly not Hurley's racing heart as he lay there, seeing Michael's face flash through his mind and trying to tell himself he was not the man who killed Libby.
PG-13
post-"Live Together, Die Alone"
Hurley wakes up now some nights, heart thumping him out of a deep sleep, gooseflesh in the eighty-five degree heat, and somehow a cold sweat soaking through his shirt. Sometimes he feels the itch of a burlap sack over his face, and that itch always sounds like the man's voice, so calm but just as muffling, blinding, terrifying.
He was the man who'd killed Libby. At least that's how Hurley likes to think about it. He doesn't want to believe Michael could do something like that. Someone who lived among them every day, and they didn't know.
Of course, Ben had lived with them the same way, unknown. Except there were a chosen few that knew, the ones who always took it upon themselves to understand things. Hurley likes to think he would've seen it in his eyes. That moment of surety makes his stomach seize up like a fist. But he knows he wouldn't have known. And, apparently, knowing never did anybody any good. Simply knowing never stopped a thing, certainly not Hurley's racing heart as he lay there, seeing Michael's face flash through his mind and trying to tell himself he was not the man who killed Libby.