children, your time is done; if you say it's done together

[confidenceman]

When James Ford woke up that morning in an unfamiliar building, in a bed larger than the one in his house and a room so bare that it almost reminded him of the hospital, he didn't panic. Most things seemed unfamiliar to him, those days. Places that had once been familiar, like his grandparents' house, like the classrooms in his school, or even the pews of his church, never seemed the same anymore. The world had wrapped itself in velvet, almost, something dark, heavy, and against which James couldn't push very far, keeping him from feeling much of anything of the outside word. Keeping him trapped in his own thoughts. Wherever he was, it didn't matter— he was sure that someone had put him there for a reason, and that someone would find and whisk him away again before long— and so James simply slid his legs off the side of the bed and dropped to the floor.

Whoever had dressed him for bed hadn't done a very good job. The t-shirt that he wore was several sizes too large, and his underpants were just about falling off. Tugging them up as well as he could, James quickly stumbled over to the large dresser in the room, pulling every drawer open until he spotted a few plain t-shirts that looked like they'd only be slightly too big, and a pair of jeans that could be held up well enough with the aid of a belt. Wordlessly dressing himself, James peeked around the rest of the room, a faint voice in the back of his mind reminding him that today was the funeral date.

(And the thought alone brought tears to his eyes, but he shook his head vigorously; mama wouldn't have wanted him to cry.)

He pushed past the curtains of the room, unseeing. Pushed into another room, where a projector was playing cartoons in the background, where a bookshelf was piled high with books. Spotting a pen and pad on a nearby table, James looked carefully around before sliding them off with quiet hands and tucking the pad under his arm. He passed through a kitchen filled with sights, sounds, smells, but it didn't matter— he wasn't hungry. Standing in an empty hall, James looked down both ends, before turning left, to the doors marked as an exit, quietly pushing one just a fraction before he stood under the brilliance of the sun, a porch and steps in front of him.

Peeking around again, James pressed his lips together, walked forward to sit himself on the top step, and laid the pad across his knees. Now that he was alone, he could do this.

Dear Mr. Sawyer, his pen scrawled in uneven writing.


[ Eight-year-old Sawyer, after a night spent in the dorms for easier access to the showers, is now sitting on the front steps of the Compound and writing his famous letter. ST/LT more than welcome, no limit on threads. Replies will come from giveyouthis. ]

Comments

[lexiepedia.livejournal.com]

It doesn't take Lexie long to figure out that the island is doing something weird. So far, she's just been glad to be one of the unaffected ones, taking in most of the sights with no small amount of amusement. There's nothing funny about the way the boy on the steps looks, though, whether or not he is as he's supposed to be. Lexie says nothing, just looks for a moment — a couple of seconds, no more — before walking past, the steps wide enough that she can get into the Compound without having to interrupt.

That was her plan, anyway. One glance at the paper — she really hadn't even meant to look — is all it takes to change that, her breath catching in her throat. She's never actually pressed about Sawyer's past, but she remembers all too well the things he told her when he was incapable of saying anything but the truth (even if she remembers even better the part that came after that), and she doesn't think it's very difficult to make sense of what's happening here. Ignoring the way her stomach twists at the thought, she takes a seat beside the boy, frowning slightly. "Hey," she says quietly, "you okay?"

[giveyouthis]

Legs dangling over the steps, James' heels kick against the wood. It's a regular motion, one that's more the result of habit than anything else, from long days spent on his grandmother's porch. In his mind, James knows that h needs to cut those off too, in time. He doesn't live that life anymore. He's not sure if he can even pretend to, doesn't know if he wants to live with his grandparents at all. There are times when he has no greater impulse than the one to run away, to just become another person entirely, but the world is a large and frightening place to a boy of eight. He's not sure he has it in him to run just yet.

Eventually, he has to. He needs to find Mr. Sawyer.

The voice that sounds by his ear makes James jump, staring over with widened eyes before he calms down. He may be nothing more than a boy, but James thinks that sometimes it's kids like him who can understand people best. This lady is one of the adults who really seems to care. Some pretend to, some give James plenty of hugs and long speeches that he never really understands, but this lady, something tells him that she means it. Still, there's no point in bringing anyone else into this. No point when he doesn't get comfort from talking about it at all.

So he nods, turning back to his pad and setting down the pen politely, wondering if she'll leave soon.

[lexiepedia.livejournal.com]

For Lexie, leaving wasn't yet an option, if only because she didn't know what else to do, reasonably certain that she was right about the boy's identity. If she hadn't wanted to push for information when she was with the Sawyer she knew, she absolutely wasn't going to now, when there was still a part of her that had to wonder. It wasn't really the point, anyway. Something about him just seemed so sad, and she was hard-pressed to ignore that, teeth worrying at her lower lip as she looked over at him.

"Is it someone here?" she asked quietly, after a few moments' silence. "Who you're writing to." Either way, it wouldn't really tell her anything, but as he hadn't told her to go, there was, she thought, no harm in asking.

[giveyouthis]

James takes a second to consider the question, but he shakes his head soon enough. No, Mr. Sawyer isn't here. He can't be. Bad people like Mr. Sawyer have to run, otherwise the police catch them real quick, and that hasn't happened, so Mr. Sawyer must be a long, long distance away by now, James thinks, the very thought making him grip his pen more tightly in frustration. Most days, he can't tell whether or not he's scared, or if caring is so far from him now that he could go out there and look for the man himself. It's the indecision that ultimately keeps him rooted in one place, the door out seeming to close further and further every day.

"He ran away," James manages to say in an undertone, his pen carefully meeting paper again.

You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done.

[lexiepedia.livejournal.com]

You find him, Lexie wants to say, biting her lip with the effort it takes not to. You find him and you kill him and maybe, maybe that's okay. She can't, though. If he doesn't remember anything, then she can't tell him she knows him when he's older, knows about his future. This may not be her forté, but she's pretty sure that would screw with the space-time continuum in some pretty serious ways. If he knows now, surely it would cause trouble, even here, in a place where Mr. Sawyer has never actually been (and God, she hopes never will be, if only because she thinks Sawyer would kill him again, and she doesn't know what she'd do if anyone found out and he went to jail or something).

"I'm sorry," she says, thinking that bears saying regardless, even if she shouldn't technically know who the man he's writing to is, or what he did. "That's gotta suck."

[little_moons]

The girls are in the kitchen with a friend, having breakfast, when I step outside for a smoke. The big downside to the tiny dress I've put on is the lack of pockets, and I'm seriously considering finding a little purse or something to stash my cigarette case and lighter, just to I can keep the twins from messing around with them.

I've already got a cigarette between my lips, unlit, when I step barefoot onto the front steps, finding that there's already someone that's claimed the spot I was gonna take.

"Hey," I say to the kid, walking to the edge of the steps and asking, "Mind some company?" He's little, and alone, but I already know that just 'cause he's a kid today, that doesn't mean that's always the case.

[giveyouthis]

There sure are a lotta people here. I still don't know where I am, and the trees outside don't look like anything close to home, but it don't really matter. There's lots of people here, and when there's lots of people, usually you're safe. When things get real quiet, then it's dangerous, especially if you stop, which is why I ain't never gonna stay anywhere by myself. If there's no one I wanna be around, I'm just gonna leave. Sooner or later. Once everyone stops watching me.

There's a lady that's on the porch now. Her dress is too small, and the way she talks ain't like people from home, but I guess that makes sense because of the trees. Maybe God's granted my wish. Maybe I really have run away.

I shake my head. Don't matter to me where she sits. Just as long as I get to finish my letter.

[little_moons]

This... isn't an adult. Or if they were, they don't remember it. It's an easy sort of thing to read off a person, and that look on his face is so familiar, it brings back a flood of memories over fifteen years old.

Lighting up my cigarette, I make sure to exhale away from the kid's face, my bare feet resting on the step below us, knees drawn up toward my chest.

"You gotta name?" I ask after a moment.

[giveyouthis]

Pa used to smoke. I remember mama always telling him to put it out, 'specially round us kids, but sometimes he wouldn't listen. Like after he had too many beers. I guess I end up watching the cigarette too close, because I almost miss the question that she asks. I look down at my letter again. I should finish it.

But it's rude to ignore someone.

"James," I murmur, so soft that I dunno if she hears it or not. Before I know it, my feet are kicking the step again.

[tricksthetreat.livejournal.com]

Trixa took a sadistic amount of glee during weekends like this. Sure, it was a little cruel, but watching the rest of the island's inhabitants flail at being in different bodies was fun for a creature like her who didn't have a regular form was amusing. The one thing she was trying to do this time around was keep an eye out for the kids, because people waking up six years old was a recipe for disaster.

Case in point, the lonely little boy sitting, apparently alone, on the steps of the compound.

"Hey, kiddo." She approached with a smile, leaving her hands in view and moving casually. "You all alone out here?"

[giveyouthis]

Hearing a voice that was probably calling out to him— because most people seemed keen on making sure that he was okay, or at least asking to check if he was, even if they should have known that he would never really be okay now— James turned to look briefly over his shoulder, expression even as he looked the woman from head to toe. She wasn't anyone he could remember seeing before, and she didn't use his name. Maybe she was someone new.

Just a few weeks ago, he would've greeted her with a smile, let her know his name. Those days, it felt like too much to even speak up, most of the time. So James turned back to his letter again, staring down at the lines there.

He nodded, belatedly, in response to the question.

[tricksthetreat.livejournal.com]

This was a serious one, alright. Moving closer, she sat down on the step next to him, still leaving some room so he didn't feel like was crowding him too badly. Stretching her legs out she leaned back looking at the sky. Some kids didn't like to be bothered, to be crowded and sometimes it was just enough to be there.

But Trixa wasn't convinced he was that kind yet.

"Anyone looking out for you, or are you just hanging out today?"

[giveyouthis]

Whether or not the woman sitting by his side was a comfort, James couldn't decide. There were times when he wanted nothing more than to be in his own room, to shut the door and lock it tight, making sure that no one else came inside. But every single time that he'd tried, he just ended up crying, he just ended up feeling lost, the reminder of just how alone he was too much for him to bear. With a slow inhale, James continued to kick at the step, his hand gripping the pen so tightly that his fingers trembled from the effort.

"Just... writin' a letter," he mumbles quietly, a crease forming between his brows.

[ffyddlon]

Gwen's not entirely used to the things this island does to people and waking up this morning in a gangly, teenage body hasn't done much to make her like it any more. She decides the Compound's her best bet; if it's more than one person, they'll congregate. That's what people do when they panic, after all.

The little boy isn't someone she knows but she can't help but stop, wondering what he's writing. Is he someone who's always a little boy or is he someone she's passed on the island in her day to day life and he's just temporarily small?

"Hi," she says softly, deciding to chance it. "What's that? You look very busy."

[giveyouthis]

It's a girl. James can't say that he knows a lot of girls, he can't even say that he's spent a lot of time around them. Until recently, they've just been the source of cooties, and they've been a real pain whenever they yell at the boys for running around the jungle gym, like the least bit of noise is a death knell for a tea party. But these days, even girls are more comforting than most of the people who hang around James. More comforting than adults.

Because it doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, they're not gonna ask too many questions about what's happened.

"A letter," James replies quietly, kicking his heels against the step.

[ffyddlon]

"For someone back home? Or just to write one?" Gwen asks, but she's not really that curious about the answer. She mostly just wants him to talk because he looks a little sad and if she can help, she will.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Letters are private, after all."

[giveyouthis]

He shakes his head, because neither's quite right, is it? Mr. Sawyer can't be home, he can't be anywhere close, because he has no reason to be there. What he wanted was the money, and he has that now, no more reason to stick around once that was in his hands. But this also isn't a letter that James plans to write for no reason at all. He knows that someday, he'll find Mr. Sawyer, and he'll make him feel sorry, make him say sorry. James knows that there isn't anything in the world that'll bring his parents back, but his mama always told him that saying sorry fixed a lot of things. Maybe that can be true for Mr. Sawyer, too.

"I don't know where he is," James mumbles, fighting off the urge to cry as he shakes his head again. "He's gone."

[thelikelife]

Luce isn't looking where she's going and practically trips on him. It's an embarrassing moment, but she thinks that in a field of humiliating everythings, one little trip won't really hurt much. Provided she hasn't hurt the boy, of course. She manages to catch her fall with a palm slammed to the door frame, checking up on him after she blows a wisp of hair from off her lips. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

[giveyouthis]

There's a light and sudden gasp that passes between James' lips as his pen drags along the paper, ripping through the top couple of sheets as he looks over to the person who's fallen over him, hoping that she's okay. He hasn't been tripped over a lot in his life. Hasn't really been tripped over at all, lately, 'cause people are too careful around him, they don't want to hurt him at all if they can help it. Maybe she doesn't know who he is. Maybe she's trying to cheer him up. But most importantly, he just hopes that she isn't hurt.

He shakes his head when she asks after him. A little bump here and there isn't gonna hurt. "Are you okay?" he asks instead, blinking.

[thelikelife]

"Oh, just embarrassed," Luce admits with an exhalation, pressing her fingers through her hair. She doesn't think she's ever seen the boy before, which seems to be the new status quo on the island these days. "What's your name?" she asks, just to cover all her bases.

[giveyouthis]

When it doesn't look like she's been hurt too badly by the tumble, James turns back to his paper, a careful glance up at her now and again before he considers writing more. It's not like he wants the whole world to know what he's writing— he doesn't— but it's still something that he needs to get done. He's not sure how much he'll be able to write if he puts it off for too long, like it's one of those things that he just needs to push forward with, like it's one of those things that'll come to a stop if he doesn't push anymore. Starting's always the hard part.

"James," he replies quietly, figuring that at the very least, he can offer his name. It's just a name. "I'm James."

[hightail.livejournal.com]

Although many knew of Katie Austen, the way that those from small towns were often hyper-aware of their neighbors, few could claim to really know the girl herself, and she preferred it this way. Nosy as the population was, what went on between Wayne and Diane was hardly a well-kept secret, and on some level, she resented every one of those so-called neighbors for watching and standing by. It was no one's responsibility, but she liked to think that were she an adult in any position to help, she would have tried. In fact, Kate longed for the day when she could finally drag her mother from Wayne's clutches, one way or another.

Impossibly far from home, she couldn't help feeling guilty at having left Diane on her own, whether by choice or not, but if nothing else, life thus far had taught her to push forward, to persevere. Thoughts of home were stopped in their tracks, banished someplace as far and away as she understood this island was. Albeit reluctantly, she finally allowed herself to embrace the circumstances in some way, basking in how little attention she was being paid. She'd had a reputation for trouble since she could remember, adults warily watching her every step while instructing their children to steer clear of the Austen girl. But here, she wasn't bad news, nor was she good news, she simply was. It felt incredibly freeing.

Yet Kate had never been an especially calm or patient girl, and after a few hours, the tranquil finally started getting to her. Keeping to herself would do no more, even if she doubted she could contribute to the efforts to help those afflicted this afternoon — there was a good chance she was one of them herself, whether she remembered or not. She wasn't especially interested in finding out. Aimlessly, she ambled through and around the Compound, until at last she took a seat beside the boy on the porch. "Hi," she said with a small wave. "What're you writing?"

[giveyouthis]

While James Ford was too young to truly understand how far curiosity could reach, he could sense that something was different about this girl. Where others had asked after his well-being, where others had asked him about the man he was writing the letter to (and this, he'd come to learn, was largely because there were a whole lot of people on the island, every one of them lots, every one of them stumbling about in the way that James was), this girl asked a question that drove to the heart of the matter. In some ways, he'd wanted this kind of opportunity, one where he could tell the full story to someone, someone who didn't have any more credibility than he did, someone who probably couldn't make the police take off all on her own. James had nothing against the police. He'd wanted to join them, once upon a time.

But sometimes there were things that a man could only do himself, and even at eight, James knew this. He knew what it meant, although it'd be years yet until he could put a word to the feeling that burned within his chest, drawing out smoke, making it impossible to breathe— justice.

"A letter," he said quietly, his hand still tightly gripping the pen, even though the words couldn't come. He was, after all, trying to find the ones to hand over to the brunette, trying to piece them together into some coherent picture. "Writin' a letter to someone who ran away."

[hightail.livejournal.com]

Back home, Kate didn't know many kids her own age, much less those younger and more impressionable. She was, in many ways, a black sheep, one to avoid, which was just fine as she avoided them all right back. This was, however, since waking up here, she second time that Kate found herself talking to someone around his age. The similarities to Olivia didn't stop there, both of them possessing a guarded air with which she could identify. From what she had been told, what she could discern, Olivia's experiences were not unlike Kate's own. She wondered if this boy, too, had a monster living in his home.

Leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, Kate turned her head to look at his face, mindful not to appear as if she was peeking at the letter. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her himself. Having considered his words, she finally thought to ask, "How are you gonna get it to him if he's run away?"

[giveyouthis]

He's a boy in too deep, he's a boy who's taken on the entirety of the world when he hasn't even known responsibility, and it shows in his eyes, manifests as fear that holds him at a distance. But still, he holds his shoulders back, raises his chin, keeps himself resolved as he stares back at this girl, trying to ignore how beautiful she is— but that's the sort of thing that you always notice, no matter how stricken with grief, no matter how angry. Beauty bleeds through every single time. The hold he's held on his pen loosens slightly as he hides the breath in his lungs.

"I'm gonna find him," he says, and although every bone in his body behaves in a way so unsure, the words are the opposite. "I'm gonna find him and give it to him. I'll— I'll watch him read it and everything."