You go with Jack because it’s the only way to understand why those people are saying that Penny sent them and because if something happens, you figure that being the first in line can’t do any harm.

It’s not because of Hurley, or Claire, or so you want to say.

You still need to give Claire Charlie’s list, which is wet and crumpled but still readable or so you think. You had a brief look at it before, without actually reading what was written on it, and it is readable, indeed; you don’t know how it can be possible but it is. You need to speak to her and to Hurley, but as they turn to go with John, you can’t find it in yourself to go.

You repeat it in your head, over and over.

You aren’t going with them because the only way you can give Charlie’s death a sense is by going with Jack.

You can’t fool yourself, though; you know you’re being a coward all over again wherever you go. You are if you go with Jack and you are if you go with John. Going with Jack, is the easiest option.

You haven’t spoken a word since telling them at the beach. Probably no one has noticed, but you can do without attention, for now.

You couldn’t help grimacing when you overheard Sawyer and Hurley’s conversation in the woods, when you were trekking. You haven’t still processed everything that happened. You haven’t had the time to elaborate it. Charlie drowned, everything was saying you need to warn them, you can think about this later.

If you go with John, you will have to face it sooner than later and you’re sure no one is going to be a bit sympathetic with you.

So you go with Jack. This way you can worry about the freighters, about Penny’s boat not being Penny’s boat, about everything that isn’t the bare fact that Charlie is dead.

It isn’t right, you think. When you thought you found God, when you thought you had to get into that monastery, you thought it was for a purpose. Then when you had to leave, you were sure you had to have another one.

You always had to have a sodding purpose, but looking back at everything, not only you can’t find one, but you can only see a failure after another. And no, you don’t see pushing that button as the only great thing you ever done.

You can’t find a purpose in Charlie dying, either, and it’s the worst thing of all.

You can’t move, watching them leave; guilt rips through every inch of your body and you can’t even bring yourself to cry because something is telling you that you’d be an hypocrite, if you did.

Claire can, of course, she has every right. Hurley can, he has every right, too. Hell, everyone can, everyone but you. You brought him there, it’s basically your fault, you shouldn’t have told him about the helicopter, maybe he would have escaped, it’s your fault all over again, you don’t have a right. Not one, simple as that.

You don’t want to say it. You don’t even want to think it, for that matter. You and Him have never been on very enthusiastic terms since, well, maybe it’s better not to go this way.

You can’t shake from your mind Charlie crossing himself before disappearing from your field of vision, or maybe you were crying too much and you couldn’t distinguish anything, the world suddenly becoming a blur.

The chance that there really isn’t a God in this world has never seemed closer to reality.

End.