philosophy_20

In the beginning, it was a simple question, nothing out of the ordinary, supposed to be forgotten just mere seconds after being asked. Nothing more than that.

He had been at the graveyard with Sawyer.

Or better, Sawyer was at the graveyard where he usually spent half of his day with Charlie’s guitar next to him.

Desmond never asked him why he took it, but then again, Claire had made obvious that she didn’t want it. Too painful, she had said. Sawyer had stepped up and she gave it to him instead of just throwing it away and Sawyer actually took good care of it. He knew how to tune it, he even changed the strings since he had another whole pack in his stash.

Sometimes he found him playing, when he passed by. Desmond noticed that Sawyer never used guitar picks; he only picked the strings with his bare fingertips. Once he said he liked the sound better. The last time Desmond played a guitar was well before meeting Penny and he couldn’t remember, nor object.

So, most times Sawyer sat there and played. Sometimes he didn’t and he just stared at the sea, unusually silent. Though Desmond could swear he had heard him addressing some Sticks once, but talking with graves sure wasn’t a sign of impending madness. No, if anything, it helped keeping you sane. Dead people listen to you and don’t answer back with their own problems; Desmond knew that Sawyer had probably figured it out and he couldn’t blame him one bit.

Anyway, when he asked that question, Desmond had spent some time watching the names of the people on the crosses. Charlie’s first, he always brought him flowers. Or anything he could find which was worth of the mention.

He knew who the others were, almost all of them.

Libby, Hurley had told him about it. Ana-Lucia, well, Hurley had told him along with Libby. Sawyer said something, too, once. He really didn’t remember much. Charlie had told him about Eko, and Locke had too. He hadn’t met Shannon, but from what Sayid said, she had to be a bonnie, fine miss.

That question was really out of pure curiosity.

“Brother, who was this... Boone Carlyle?”

Sawyer, who was playing some Beatles song without putting any kind of effort in it, stopped and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Why d’you wanna know?”

“Just, he’s the only one I don’t know.”

“He was the first that died. I really wasn’t there though, just gave Kate all my alcohol, but she didn’t want me to come. Maybe I should’ve. Anyway, you really should be askin’ the doc ‘bout it, except you can’t. Suppose Locke knows more than me. Jack was crazy with him for days sayin’ Locke killed the poor kid. Though no one really ever knew what it was.”

Sawyer turned back and Desmond should have thought that when one sings We Can Work It Out with a Southern USA drawl it should seem at least peculiar (and disturbing, for that matter), or that it was actually scary that Sawyer had sprung out more than four sentences. He barely had actual conversation with anyone but graves, those days. Instead, he remembered a conversation he had with Locke in the hatch.

About some kid who died because he trusted Locke to know what the hell he was doing and Locke banging on his door.

He guessed it wasn’t a good idea to go ask John.

But he didn’t have a better one.

--

“John!”

“What do you want?”

“When we were in the hatch... you know, you said somethin’ about someone dyin’ the night you, well, when I heard you banging on the door?”

“I’d really prefer not to...”

“John, I swear it’s the first and last time I’m askin’ you this.”

Locke didn’t look pleased at all with the question, but he just shrugged and leaned against a tree, not looking at him in the face.

“Well, I had this vision, where the kid, Boone, was covered in blood. Or something. the next day, my legs failed me and one of us was supposed to climb on the yellow plane.”

“The one near the second hatch?”

“That one exactly. He did, and the plane crashed down. I told him to get the fuck down but he didn’t and I brought him to Jack. Just... then I did a very stupid thing and left. He died that night and you know all the rest.”

Desmond thought better than asking Locke what was the very stupid thing. He guessed he could try to force it out of Sawyer or someone else who was there. But he couldn’t help asking another.

“If he hadn’t died, you wouldn’t have gone to the hatch, aye?”

Locke this time looked at him for a spare second before crouching to take his backpack and turning to the camp. But then he turned and looked at Desmond again.

“No. I probably wouldn’t have.”

Locke left and Desmond couldn’t help thinking something he really would have avoided.

I’m alive just ‘cause he’s dead.

--

It wouldn’t go away after that and Desmond found himself wanting to know how this guy looked like. He couldn’t stop thinking about it and it wasn’t much pleasant than thinking about Charlie, not really. He was between a rock and a hard place; either way he was sure to wake up to some nightmare and well, it really was better when it was Charlie, because at least Charlie had a face.

Three days later he asked Sawyer again. He really was the only one he felt comfortable enough asking something, there.

“How was he?”

“How was who, Dessy McFly?”

Desmond didn’t really get it. Maybe it was for the better.

“The lad. Boone. However.”

“Why’s that you’re suddenly so interested? You ain’t even...”

“I know, I know. Just, tell me, brother.”

“Hell, I’d really... listen, the closest to him I was, well, I went beatin’ the hell outta him because I found him searchin’ through my stuff and didn’t ‘preciate it a bit. And well, sometimes I wish I didn’t, but, y’know, late for the amends. Right?”

“Yeah but... brother, fact is, I think I am alive because he died.”

Sawyer raised his head from the book he was trying to read and looked at him with disbelief, lowering his glasses.

“The hell you’re talkin’ about?”

“The night when he died, John went to the hatch and, well, he started bangin’ on the door. And I was really contemplatin’, you know...”

Desmond guessed he was showing it all on his face, seeing how Sawyer understood what he meant even without him finishing that sentence.

“You wanted to fuckin’ kill yourself?”

“Aye, but I didn’t. ‘Cause I heard him. So, well..”

Sawyer just closed the book, took off the glasses and put his head into his hands.

“That’s fucked up. Most fucked up thing after the polar bears. Y’know that. Right?”

“I know that.”

“Oh, well, fuck it, if you really care. He was twenty-something. Prettiest piece of ass that ever walked on this godforsaken piece of rock. Even prettier than his sister, I guess. And always wanted to be, useful or somethin’. Except he shouldn’t have been, if you get my drill. And, what else, oh, yeah, I stole his book. The one with the bunny on the cover. Maybe I’ll just finish it one day. Enough for you?”

“Yeah. Thanks, brother. Good read.”

Sawyer nodded and Desmond made to leave, except that...

“Braveheart! Just, come back a moment. Why the hell am I even doin’ this...”

Desmond followed Sawyer into his tent, where he found him crouching and searching through a suitcase full of assorted things. He could see wallets, shirts, girls lingerie and he didn’t know what else. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Anyway, Sawyer showed up with a wallet, opening it and taking something out.

“After they went, I decided to get a look through stuff. Y’know. Baggage and things. Like I did in the beginning. This was his, I just kept it ‘cause, well, just ‘cause. If you’re really that interested, take this.”

He shoved a picture in Desmond’s hand and left the tent, Desmond following him and having a look at the photo in the daylight.

There were two people. A pretty young blonde girl, dressed like a ballerina or something like that, smiling, her eyes shining with joy. They were of a warm honey brown, while her teeth were of a strange, blinding white; she was very tall and definitely a beautiful girl.

“She was Shannon, for your interest.”, said Sawyer from his seat, where he retrieved his glasses and his book.

“Oh, right.”

He looked at the other person.

A young man, with dark brown hair, cut short at the neck but still long-ish, a couple of bangs over the biggest pair of blue eyes he could remember having ever seen. Maybe just slightly taller than her. He wore a pair of jeans and a plain grey shirt, his smile was of the same league of the girl’s, his lips relaxed and looking very soft and for a second he thought that he was definitely the prettiest of the pair. They both looked so happy.

Just like he and Penny looked in their photo, Desmond reasoned. And it wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Thanks, brother.”

He didn’t wait for Sawyer’s answer. He just left.

--

He found out that another thing for which Charlie was much more preferable to have nightmares about at night was that he had a voice. Because when in your nightmares you find yourself with someone who yells at you for not being able to prevent his death and another someone who just looks at you with two enormous, sad blue eyes, saying nothing and reminding you that seeing how fate works his life ended before he was thirty because your arse had to be saved, who wouldn’t go for choice number one?

In the beginning he managed to sleep for six or seven hours.

After two weeks or something like it, they really didn’t count the time anymore, they narrowed to three, and it wasn’t good sleeping.

When Sawyer sent Juliet to check on him he realized it was becoming noticeable.

When he found out he didn’t even have the strength to push her away he realized he was seriously hitting the bottom of the pit, or maybe not.

That was when he started spending his days in the jungle and hearing some faint sound which was too similar to the hatch alarm for him to like it.

This definitely looked way closer to the bottom of the pit.

--

At camp, they saw him just in the night and in the morning. During the day, he just wanted to spend his bloody time alone. At least no one was going to take him for completely crazy again whenever he closed his eyes and saw one of them, or even both. The fact that he didn’t change his clothes or anything didn’t do much to make the situation better. Maybe they already took him for completely crazy again.

When he realized he couldn’t give a damn, he stopped thinking about hitting any bottom. He didn’t want to understand how near he was.

--

Sometimes he was at the caves, which were long abandoned by then and it was bloody fine with him indeed, though he avoided the cascades. He pretty much avoided water, those days. Some others, he stood where the remnants of the beech craft still were. There still was some blood visible on the broken glass windows. This made him so completely sick, but he guessed he deserved to see it.

He never went back to the graveyard and that picture was still in his pocket.

--

The day Sawyer came when he was at the caves and shouted in his face to get a fuckin’ grip, he just laughed. How the hell should I get a grip, he asked before trying to leave.

Sawyer just took his arm and forced him to go near the pond and look at his face.

Desmond shrunk away from that because he couldn’t recognize himself at the least.

“I dunno who was dumber, of those two, but you can trust me on somethin’.”

“What, brother?”, he asked, noticing how strange the sound of his own voice was in his ears.

“Neither of ‘em would have wished to see you like this. VH1 most of all and Metro, hell, he didn’t even know you. And he wouldn’t have even died if Locke hadn’t fucked some shit up after he fell.”

“What?”

“I spoke with him, y’know. Asked if there was somethin’ I could tell ya to get your sorry ass back on track. He said he lied to the doc.”

“He... lied?”

“Yeah. He said kid fell from a cliff, not that he’d been crashed in the plane. The Jackass did everythin’ considerin’ Locke’s first answer and when he got things happened differently, well, ‘twas just too late. But Locke could have told him the truth and go knockin’ on your door anyway, and now maybe you’d be both alive. I dunno, but could you please just stick in that poor excuse of a head of yours that you’re goin’ crazy for nothin’?”

“Why are you even tellin’ me this, brother?”

Sawyer shrugged. He didn’t look at all pleased by that conversation.

“Damnit, William of Baskerville, you really need to know?”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, now that’s a question. I’ll narrow it down. Who’s still here?”

“What do you...”

“Aftet those crazy freighters came. Who’s still here?”

“You. Juliet. Locke. Me. Claire.”

But they took the child, he adds in his mind.

“Good. Now, use that head of yours. What business me n’ Hot Lips have?”

“You’re civil I guess...”

“Damn right. Claire hasn’t got business with anyone really. And me n’ Locke, you think he’s my best friend forever or somethin’?”

And then the truth clicked.

“Brother, you aren’t sayin’ that I’m the only company you have.”

“You said it, not damn well me. So I’d much appreciate if you got a wash and moved your ass down on camp. Someone’s got boar and at least we’ll be eatin’ decently. I think you could use some.”

Sawyer left and Desmond found himself crashing on his knees. He brought a hand on his face, feeling his too full beard, then looked at some black shirt he had had on, which was completely torn. He took it out, undressed completely and he closed his eyes as he stepped into the pond, into the clear water, still keeping his eyes closed.

Ten minutes after he could feel fairly better, surely cleaner; he dipped his hands in the water and washed his face as good as he could, then got out and realized that Sawyer had left a clean towel and some clean clothes on a rock near there.

Desmond ignored whatever it was that made strange effects to his guts and towards the rock, putting himself between it and the single ray of sun that reached it, shining through the trees above him. He waited until he was at least half dry, then put on a pair of pants which was slightly larger than it should have been. The clean, white shirt Sawyer had left felt too crispy and warm on his skin, almost uncomfortable; but it was a fair improvement from the rag he had been wearing for the past weeks.

He leaned against the rock, just enjoying the feeling of the sun creeping through his body. He actually didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do now. Why not enjoying some...

“Looks like you feel better.”

Desmond didn’t place the voice he heard. Not at all. In fact, he was sure he had never heard it, not even in random conversation on the beach. His eyes snapped open and he turned his head into the direction the voice came from.

Then he had to keep all the control he had from screaming out loud.

Because the man of his pic, well, he was right there in front of him. The hair was slightly longer and he was dressed with clothes that seemed taken right out Sayid’s wardrobe, but that was him, indeed. The eyes, especially, were exactly the same. Though while in his picture they expressed pure adoration for the girl next to him, now they seemed more amused than anything else.

“What..? Are you...”

“I’m exactly who you think I am. And no, no one brought me back to life, before you ask me. I’m sort of around.”

“Around..?”

“Sure. But it’s not like people can see me. And maybe it’s for the better.You know, they’d freak out. Like you are, anyway.”

“I’m not..”

“Desmond, you are so freaking out. Even John was less freaked out than you are right now and you know, he was really out of it.”

“Locke? Brother, I think I’m definitely losin’ it. You must be an hallucination or somethin’ or...”

“Luckily for you, I’m not.”

Boone came closer and now was in front of him; he closed a hand around Desmond’s wrist and, well, he was real indeed. For three seconds or so, Desmond stared at him, right in his eyes; then had to turn his head because they were too big, too blue and too much really.

“So, are we agreeing on me being real?”

“Aye.”, he managed to say.

“Great. Now, I really have something to show you. And I need you to listen to me and to pay attention, because it’s, well, kinda important. Well, no, scratch it, very much important. So please, will you stop brooding for me since no one asked you to and actually decide to give a crap about what I say?”

Desmond turned his head in Boone’s direction again, nodding slightly. This was too insane to brood about, anyway.

“Good.”

It was a second.

Before, he was there, the rock behind his back, the sun warming him.

Now, he didn’t fall only because Boone was keeping the grip on his hand and he was in an airport.

But a strange one. Everything was white and shiny and looked so false, like the airport had been opened just that day and no one had had the time to walk on the floor making it dirty; and everything seemed to move in some kind of slow motion, or fast forward motion, depending on where he turned his head.

“Brother, what..?”

“It doesn’t matter. Now, before we go, just listen to me.”

Desmond nodded again and Boone put both of his hands on his shoulders, looking at him straight in his eyes.

“First thing: don’t ever think that I’m dead because of you. Maybe that you’re alive because I’m dead, I can concede that, but not the contrary. Now, I’m really sorry for having you going through all this shit, but the problem is that, in order to bring you here, you had to be in a... let’s say pissy poor condition.”

“But how? How should I be in..”

“I really can’t explain that to you right now. The important why is not that one.”

“Which is?”

“It’s why you’re here.”

“And me being here is so important that I had to get through all that? And how’s that possible?”

Boone shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.

“You of everyone, should know that everything is possible here. And it’s important for you to be here because you’ve got work to do, and I’ve got to show you. It’s... well, an important work. You know the saying, ends justify the means?”

Desmond nodded, still too bummed to understand a thing, and Boone suddenly took his other wrist and started to walk.

“Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”

Desmond realized they were at the base floor, or something like that. He turned his head and spotted Jin and Sun, dressed as though they were going to some high class party, outside a bathroom. Desmond thought he saw a sign with a baby changing table outside the door.

“What..?”

“They’re fine. For now. Come on, they’re still not your job.”

Boone started to hurry and Desmond tried to keep up with him, until they arrived in a pretty big flying gate.

“Now, look.”

Desmond nodded again and Boone moved a bit in order to let him see what was happening there.

Kate, her hair neat and perfect, probably a hundred dollar cut or something like it, a nice blue tailleur, was sitting, reading a newspaper, sunglasses covering her eyes.

A man was arguing with a hostess, seemingly trying to get on the plane, but she refused. It took Desmond some time to recognize him as Jack, a beard which was too full and long covering his face, his eyes bloodshot, a dirty jeans jacket and a trembling hand.

He turned to the other side, where Sayid, dressed in a black, smart coat, was in a corner, a hand closed around a gun in his pocket, one over his eyes, like he had been crying. At another gate, Ben, dressed as a flight attendant, was looking at Sayid while letting some people into the plane; Hurley was the one checking the tickets.

Desmond looked at the destination on Ben’s flight: it said Berlin. Jack’s one, it said Sydney. After a couple of seconds, Sayid left the corner and went straight to Ben’s gate.

“But... what is Kate doing?”

“You should guess.”

“She looks... alright?”

“Only one who is.”

“But Jack? And Sayid? What...”

“Have you seen them? Have you seen where they’re going?”

“Aye, but..”

“Then come.”

Desmond followed Boone until they arrived at an escalator; they got into the upper floor. While downstairs everything was a bit hectic, here there was a heavier atmosphere, which felt a bit like the quiet before the storm.

Desmond didn’t like it one bit.

Claire stood eating a peanut butter sandwich, in front of a bar. She was crying.

Sawyer was searching through some books in a newspaper shop, dressed in the same ragged clothes he wore on island, a light backpack over his shoulder, glasses on; Locke was actually the one behind the counter. After a few seconds, he heard a voice coming through the speaker.

Flight 2384 from London is going to land in twenty minutes; flight 1624 to Berlin is leaving from...

Boone took hold of his wrist again.

“Have you seen everything? And have you heard?”

Desmond nodded frantically, trying to find something to say.

“What should I make outta this, brother? It’s...”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re good enough to. You heard where the flight arriving is coming from, right?”

“London, aye?”

“Should ring some bells. Desmond, the lower floor, it’s your job for after it arrives.”

“You meanin’ there’s going to be another plane crash?”

“Now, you’re smarter than that. All that reading didn’t teach you any metaphors?”

Desmond didn’t know what to make of it anymore, but Boone just smiled again and looked him straight in his eyes.

“Come.”

Boone then turned and just disappeared; then Desmond was on another escalator, going on another floor, an upper one, where there really was a blinding, white light. When his eyes adjusted, Boone was in front of him, his shirt torn, his face bloody, but he actually had a smirk on his lips.

“Got that?”

“Aye”, he answered without too much conviction.

“You’re a shit liar. I know you don’t, but you’ll figure it out. Sorry for this outfit, on this floor it’s the only way I can show up. Anyway, you can go now, but just a couple of things. First, Charlie says he isn’t angry with you.”

“..What..?”

“He said I should tell you, so I do. He’s alright with it and he said you should stop brooding your sorry ass about that.”

“Is he here?”

“Too many questions, man. I’m afraid I can’t answer it. Second thing, it’s been good. You know, you’re pretty cool for having taken this so well.”

“I took it well?”

“Yeah, you did. And anyway, you have probably been more sorry for my death than half of the people who crashed with me in the first place. It was completely unnecessary, but..”

“Ends justify the means..?”

“You could say that. Sorry we didn’t meet in better circumstances.”

Desmond had to smile a bit at that.

“So.. see you in another life, then, brother?”

Boone laughed and Desmond had to admit that even if his lips were sprained in blood, it was so genuine it made him feel warm.

“I guess so.”

Then Boone snapped his fingers and Desmond was in the jungle again, alone, in the exact same position he was when everything disappeared.

He ran where his discarded pair of pants was, taking out Boone and Shannon’s picture from the back pocket. It was still there and exactly the same. Then realized that something else was there.

A pen, of all things. He sure didn’t remember ever having one between his hands since a long time, much less bringing one with him.

He shrugged, turned the photo and started writing frantically behind it before he forgot something.

When he noted down everything he remembered, he threw the old clothes in the nearest cave and headed to the beach.

--

Three days after, Desmond sat at the beach. He had Boone and Shannon’s picture in one hand, his and Penny’s in the other. He kept staring at them alternatively, not knowing what to make of the similarity, really.

He turned the first one again, reading what he had written for another time, trying to figure it out, when it suddenly hit.

Flight arriving from London.

Then he looked at his photo back again.

Could it mean that...?

Desmond took both of them and tucked them in the inside pocket of his blue shirt, carefully. Then he turned his head in the direction of the jungle, murmuring a thanks, mate which he hoped no one else would hear.

But he said he was around and maybe the sudden breeze ruffling his hair had something to do with it.

He took a few steps in the camp’s direction; when he was near enough, he heard some music, then a voice singing. Of course. Desmond really wanted to know what was with Sawyer and Beatles these days. It was bloody weird.

Especially because Sawyer couldn’t choose a song that didn’t feel weird when he sang it. For example, Sawyer and Love Me Do weren’t a match. Not at all, but suddenly it felt just fine. He stopped, listening to him sing, because Desmond had this impression that not far from now, he would have wanted to remember it. Assuming that he was right, but a certain tightness in his chest, a tingling sensation spreading through his chest and a quiet ache that had been lessening since he made that connection suggested him that he couldn’t be too wrong.

He turned again and went to the graveyard, took Boone and Shannon’s photo out of its place, leaving his where it was, then knelt in front of Boone’s cross. He dug a bit, not that much, but enough; then put the photo under the ground and covered it again.

Desmond stood up and looked at the sea, not really expecting anything different.

On the horizon line, he saw a ship.

End.