(no subject)
The island didn't speak to him.
He knew every corner of her. Every mountain. Every valley. He stood under the waterfall, listening to the falls beat down on the rocks, echoing in the hidden chamber below, the dull roar pressing on his ear drums. Dizzying. He stood and listened. Listened for voices, for signs, but he heard nothing.
Tell me what to do! What am I supposed to do?
The sweat lodge stood empty. He'd given up on it weeks ago. Maybe others used it. Maybe they didn't. He heard nothing but his own thoughts. His own worries. His own insecurities. He heard nothing worth hearing at all. He thought about tearing it down, wrenching it to the ground, but he was afraid of angering... someone. Angering whomever watched over this place.
The eyes watching them were different, on this new island. He didn't recognize them. He couldn't even trick himself into believing. People filed in and out of the compound, content in their ignorance. No one wanted to know. No one needed the truth. Frustrated, his kind, easy smiles became tighter. He grovelled, begged, whenever he was alone. John Locke was desperate. Destiny can only take you so far. Fate can pass you by if you don't embrass it.
He didn't want to end up like Jack Shephard.
The compound felt wrong to him, eerie and hollow. Lifeless. He stood in the basement then, palm pressed flat on a churning washer, his other hand fisted at his side. He stood, listening to the dull hum, listening to the sound of feet and voices overhead. Teeth gritted, fist banging down on the metal washer door with a clatter. "Talk to me, damn it," he ground out to no one in particular.
Something needed to change.
[I'm about to go to sleep, but I needed to get this up. Late tags welcome all weekend. Find him losing his usually well controlled temper down in the laundry room.]
He knew every corner of her. Every mountain. Every valley. He stood under the waterfall, listening to the falls beat down on the rocks, echoing in the hidden chamber below, the dull roar pressing on his ear drums. Dizzying. He stood and listened. Listened for voices, for signs, but he heard nothing.
Tell me what to do! What am I supposed to do?
The sweat lodge stood empty. He'd given up on it weeks ago. Maybe others used it. Maybe they didn't. He heard nothing but his own thoughts. His own worries. His own insecurities. He heard nothing worth hearing at all. He thought about tearing it down, wrenching it to the ground, but he was afraid of angering... someone. Angering whomever watched over this place.
The eyes watching them were different, on this new island. He didn't recognize them. He couldn't even trick himself into believing. People filed in and out of the compound, content in their ignorance. No one wanted to know. No one needed the truth. Frustrated, his kind, easy smiles became tighter. He grovelled, begged, whenever he was alone. John Locke was desperate. Destiny can only take you so far. Fate can pass you by if you don't embrass it.
He didn't want to end up like Jack Shephard.
The compound felt wrong to him, eerie and hollow. Lifeless. He stood in the basement then, palm pressed flat on a churning washer, his other hand fisted at his side. He stood, listening to the dull hum, listening to the sound of feet and voices overhead. Teeth gritted, fist banging down on the metal washer door with a clatter. "Talk to me, damn it," he ground out to no one in particular.
Something needed to change.
[I'm about to go to sleep, but I needed to get this up. Late tags welcome all weekend. Find him losing his usually well controlled temper down in the laundry room.]