orange and lemons, say the bells of st. clements
It's almost a routine now. Every week or so, Charlie picks some of the oranges in the mini-orchard behind his hut, and he brings them up to the Compound. (He knows he can't eat all of them, so why not, really. He can't be the only one on the island with a fondness for fruit.)
He's dressed simply today: a white t-shirt and jeans, along with a pair of sandals that the clothes box was kind enough to fork over. The oranges are wrapped in a cloth that he's cradling in his arms. If he seems a little absent, it's because he is. When he'd initially arrived, he hadn't even considered the possibility that he'd be on the island for more than a few days. It had seemed too much like a fever dream. And yet, here he was, more than a year later.
Things happened, he supposed. He'd learned that a long time ago, and he'd gotten by then, too. So he'd almost gone mad. The important part was that he hadn't. Not on the outside, at least. Either way, madness wasn't the word for it. Madness wasn't the word for being just a little broken; being incomplete only to the point where functionality was still possible but seemed slightly stilted in the absence of something to fill the cracks. Reese had gone, and then Walt had gone, too. His menagerie, at least, had grown by one member. Cujo, for the most part, got along well with Cat, and as such, he had little reason to complain.
Much as he'd handled Reese's disappearance, it had taken him a few days to fully accept that Walt had gone. A few days to comb the island and make sure that he wasn't missing some vital detail that would tell him that Walt was still on the island. He hadn't missed anything.
One more link cut.
One more crack in Charlie Crews.
Things happened. And sometimes it wasn't within his power to stop them from doing so.
That didn't mean he couldn't want things a different way.
( ooc; st/lt fine as always - find him on the path to the compound or in the kitchen. )
He's dressed simply today: a white t-shirt and jeans, along with a pair of sandals that the clothes box was kind enough to fork over. The oranges are wrapped in a cloth that he's cradling in his arms. If he seems a little absent, it's because he is. When he'd initially arrived, he hadn't even considered the possibility that he'd be on the island for more than a few days. It had seemed too much like a fever dream. And yet, here he was, more than a year later.
Things happened, he supposed. He'd learned that a long time ago, and he'd gotten by then, too. So he'd almost gone mad. The important part was that he hadn't. Not on the outside, at least. Either way, madness wasn't the word for it. Madness wasn't the word for being just a little broken; being incomplete only to the point where functionality was still possible but seemed slightly stilted in the absence of something to fill the cracks. Reese had gone, and then Walt had gone, too. His menagerie, at least, had grown by one member. Cujo, for the most part, got along well with Cat, and as such, he had little reason to complain.
Much as he'd handled Reese's disappearance, it had taken him a few days to fully accept that Walt had gone. A few days to comb the island and make sure that he wasn't missing some vital detail that would tell him that Walt was still on the island. He hadn't missed anything.
One more link cut.
One more crack in Charlie Crews.
Things happened. And sometimes it wasn't within his power to stop them from doing so.
That didn't mean he couldn't want things a different way.
( ooc; st/lt fine as always - find him on the path to the compound or in the kitchen. )