(no subject)
Title: Got Wiring Loose Inside My Head
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer, mentions of many more.
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG
Prompt: For
tranquil_me
Author's Note: Weird is an understatement, but I read to much into the song I was prompted with and this is what I got. Don't restrain the muse right?
Summary: AU spec. Second opinions turn to third and fourth and it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't know something was wrong.
It’s like schizophrenia, the doctor says, in a ‘let me put it to you this way’ tone, but not any kind I’ve ever seen.
Juliet shakes her head, and tells him about a man named Daniel Faraday, whispers something about too much time on the island and not coming back right.
“Doctors aren’t going to know how to fix it,” she stares at her hands that lay limply in her lap, “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Jack the surgeon has no become Jack the man who stands on bridges so he’s of no use. First it was because he left them behind, now it’s because he brought them back.
Wrong. He brought them back wrong.
Locke in his wheelchair, same chant (we never should’ve left), Claire who can’t seem to remember what day it is, or month, or sometimes, when it’s bad, year, nevermind what happened yesterday, and now there’s him.
You’ve got a screw loose, goes the joke, trying to paint some picture of people’s minds like computers. That implies that all it takes is a screwdriver and maybe some pliers and everything’s better again, except this is his mind, his brain, and it’s not that simple, especially when you can’t tell people how you got this way in the first place.
This is all on Jack and Kate and Sayid and everyone else who left them there and crafted pretty lies upon their return about only eight people surviving, right until they felt guilty and decided that maybe what they did was wrong.
There has to be someone to blame for this and right now convenience is the only criteria he needs.
There are times when he doesn’t know where he is.
There are times when he’s back on the island, under the trees, dirt on his shoes. He tells Kate this, the one time she ever comes to see him, and when he does she cries mascara streaked tears and he begins to see her face like that whenever he thinks of her. This sad, gothic creature, dark hair and dark eyes, and he’s always been seeing her wrong and he still is. These things are clearer now.
There are other times where he’s back under his bed, eight years old and scared to death. Boots click against hardwood floors and he waits, waits for the gunshot he knows is coming. It’s usually when he’s out, when he sees perfect copies of those boots, and his head spins and he wonders when he started focusing on footwear in the first place.
The line between what’s real and what’s not becomes fuzzier as the days go on and second opinions turn to third and fourth and still no cure. He doesn’t have anything they’ve ever seen before and yet it looks like everything and it’s frustrating because he knows something’s wrong, he knows, he’s not under false impressions that this is the way it’s always been this way, or that he’s being enlightened. There are times where he’s fine and that only makes this harder.
“You wanted to stay.” Juliet points out, things he knows but doesn’t want to hear. Yes, he did, and if he had then he would’ve been none the wiser about this. No transition to mess with his brain chemistry, no problem. He didn’t ask to be rescued; it was never his idea.
He’s just stuck with the consequences.
He stops talking to her too. She doesn’t understand; nothing’s wrong with her. Nothing’s wrong with any of them, her people, the others. Whatever you want to call them.
Somewhere in his head his mother sings a lullaby as he closes his eyes and prays he doesn’t have to open them again.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer, mentions of many more.
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG
Prompt: For
tranquil_me
Author's Note: Weird is an understatement, but I read to much into the song I was prompted with and this is what I got. Don't restrain the muse right?
Summary: AU spec. Second opinions turn to third and fourth and it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't know something was wrong.
It’s like schizophrenia, the doctor says, in a ‘let me put it to you this way’ tone, but not any kind I’ve ever seen.
Juliet shakes her head, and tells him about a man named Daniel Faraday, whispers something about too much time on the island and not coming back right.
“Doctors aren’t going to know how to fix it,” she stares at her hands that lay limply in her lap, “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Jack the surgeon has no become Jack the man who stands on bridges so he’s of no use. First it was because he left them behind, now it’s because he brought them back.
Wrong. He brought them back wrong.
Locke in his wheelchair, same chant (we never should’ve left), Claire who can’t seem to remember what day it is, or month, or sometimes, when it’s bad, year, nevermind what happened yesterday, and now there’s him.
You’ve got a screw loose, goes the joke, trying to paint some picture of people’s minds like computers. That implies that all it takes is a screwdriver and maybe some pliers and everything’s better again, except this is his mind, his brain, and it’s not that simple, especially when you can’t tell people how you got this way in the first place.
This is all on Jack and Kate and Sayid and everyone else who left them there and crafted pretty lies upon their return about only eight people surviving, right until they felt guilty and decided that maybe what they did was wrong.
There has to be someone to blame for this and right now convenience is the only criteria he needs.
There are times when he doesn’t know where he is.
There are times when he’s back on the island, under the trees, dirt on his shoes. He tells Kate this, the one time she ever comes to see him, and when he does she cries mascara streaked tears and he begins to see her face like that whenever he thinks of her. This sad, gothic creature, dark hair and dark eyes, and he’s always been seeing her wrong and he still is. These things are clearer now.
There are other times where he’s back under his bed, eight years old and scared to death. Boots click against hardwood floors and he waits, waits for the gunshot he knows is coming. It’s usually when he’s out, when he sees perfect copies of those boots, and his head spins and he wonders when he started focusing on footwear in the first place.
The line between what’s real and what’s not becomes fuzzier as the days go on and second opinions turn to third and fourth and still no cure. He doesn’t have anything they’ve ever seen before and yet it looks like everything and it’s frustrating because he knows something’s wrong, he knows, he’s not under false impressions that this is the way it’s always been this way, or that he’s being enlightened. There are times where he’s fine and that only makes this harder.
“You wanted to stay.” Juliet points out, things he knows but doesn’t want to hear. Yes, he did, and if he had then he would’ve been none the wiser about this. No transition to mess with his brain chemistry, no problem. He didn’t ask to be rescued; it was never his idea.
He’s just stuck with the consequences.
He stops talking to her too. She doesn’t understand; nothing’s wrong with her. Nothing’s wrong with any of them, her people, the others. Whatever you want to call them.
Somewhere in his head his mother sings a lullaby as he closes his eyes and prays he doesn’t have to open them again.