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

[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."

[ffyddlon]

Gwen's not sure what to do with a crying little boy so she's glad he seems to be fighting the urge off for right now. She does ruffle his hair lightly, an affectionate little gesture, and hopes that helps to stave off tears. It used to work for her when she was small, anyway.

"You know, I think if you write the letter and put it in a bottle and float it out to sea, it'll find him. I used to do that when I was about your age, you know. Right off the pier? You could do it here, I think."

[giveyouthis]

They're close to the sea, the girl seems to be telling him, and James' curiosity is great enough that he looks up, small nose pointed up towards the sky and taking a deep breath. There's something in the air, and he closes his eyes to imprint it in his memory, the scent of salt, of foam washing up against the beach that stretches far in his imagination. Blinking his eyes open again, he stops when he realizes— the only person he wants here is his mother.

"No it won't," he says quietly. People do this, too. They tell him things that aren't necessarily true. They want him to feel better. (This just isn't how it's going to happen.) "Because he's running. I have to find him."

[ffyddlon]

"Can you tell me his name? I could try to catch him," Gwen offers, wanting to help any way that she can. She wonders yet again if this is someone she's met when he's an adult and that the child sitting in front of her is just an island trick but if it is, he doesn't seem to be aware of them meeting before.

"The man you're writing the letter to...tell me as much as you know about him and I'll see what I can do."

[giveyouthis]

Is it okay to be bringing someone else in like this? James isn't sure. On some level, he knows that catching Mr. Sawyer is more important than anything else, that somehow never getting the letter to him might be the worst possibility in the world, because then he wouldn't know, because then he wouldn't get to say sorry. But James also thinks that getting another person involved, especially someone who doesn't look like an adult, that'd be bad. He doesn't want anyone else to get hurt. He doesn't want to lose... anyone.

He shakes his head. "Don't try to catch him. He's a really bad man," he says quietly, voice all a rasp. "If you find him, his name's Mr. Sawyer, but you can't try to stop him. You don't know what he done. You don't know what he'll do."

[ffyddlon]

It seems important, whatever it is, and Gwen presses her lips together and nods. If he wants her to keep it secret, she will, and she won't go seeking this Mr. Sawyer out. She's met a Sawyer on the island, actually, when she first showed, but she's not sure if this is the same one.

"I won't. I won't let him hurt anyone, I promise. I'll make sure of it."

[giveyouthis]

"No," James shakes his head immediately, eyes wide and worried. Her exact phrasing makes it sound like she'll do something to keep Mr. Sawyer away from everyone else. Like she'll look out ofr him and try to keep him at bay. It's real nice, what he's trying to do for her, but James knows better, he knows better than anyone that a little girl or boy isn't going to stop Mr. Sawyer, and he's not even sure that the man would blink before taking out someone else to throw on top of all the folks he's wronged or killed.

"No," he continues, shaking his head more vigorously. "Just don't go near him. Nobody go near him. Because he won't stop himself from hurting people."

[ffyddlon]

"Okay," Gwen decides, not wanting to frighten the little boy by making him think she's going to go and do something rash. Sawyer. It sticks out in her head for some reason and she's not sure why...someone she's met on the island, perhaps? There'd been a Sawyer the first day, actually, but she'd not sensed anything other than healthy suspicion from him.

"Is he tall? Blond hair, scruff on his face? American?"

[giveyouthis]

He breathes with relief, hands immediately shoving into his pockets and picking at the loose strings there, the strings coming unraveled, tugging lightly as though they might ground him better than he's managed himself. All he needs is for people to know, and then people can stay away from Mr. Sawyer, and then Mr. Sawyer won't have anyone to steal from no more. That's all that he needs. And if Mr. Sawyer's sorry, maybe he won't even have to go to jail. James is lots of things, angry and hurt, scared and frightened, but he's not the kind of boy looking for revenge.

"Tall and blond, but no scruff on his face. He looks real respectable," he says quietly. "But yeah, think he's American. Mama always called him Tom."

[ffyddlon]

“It’s a different one I met, then,” Gwen thinks, because the Sawyer she met on the island her first day was anything but respectable. She didn’t feel unsafe around him but he wasn’t the kind of man who cleaned up the way this little boy is describing and she never got a first name, but he just didn’t seem like a Tom.

“I’ll keep safe, I promise. Is there anyone I can find for you, anyone that you know that takes care of you here?”

[giveyouthis]

She's met a Mr. Sawyer, and that very thought is enough to chill James to the bone, his eyes roving around as though he might find Mr. Sawyer standing just behind the both of them. Waiting to strike. On some level, he knows that Sawyer probably isn't the real name. Police can find people with their real names pretty easy, and someone who doesn't feel bad about taking someone's money probably doesn't feel bad about taking someone's name. His breath feels shallow in his chest, not granting enough air.

He shakes his head; it's all he can do.

"No, I'm okay. There ain't no one," he mumbles, hand straightening out his bangs where sleep's rumpled them.

[ffyddlon]

"Is there anything you might need from me?" Gwen asks, voice a little softer. The idea that someone so young is all alone on the island tugs at her heart in a soft, sad way and she wants to do anything she can to help, even if it's just offering a place to sleep or a hug or just someone to talk to. "I'm happy to do anything you need, just ask."

[giveyouthis]

He knows that she must want to help, if she's staying around like this. Sometimes, people try and offer their arms for a hug, try to give what they call condolences, but James can see the look in their eyes, like they're afraid and just want to run in the other direction. She's not doing that, and although it's hard for James to imagine how anyone else feels right now, he can remember better days, when mama sometimes tripped over her ridiculous heels, or when pa stumbled around the house all funny-like after a few beers and a good mood. Maybe he can find something for her to help with, James thinks, if it'll make her feel better.

At least she probably can.

"Um..." his voice trails off, helpless. "Maybe if you could tell me where I can sleep? I don't wanna bother no one, and I ain't got money, but I can do chores like washin' the dishes and helpin' with the laundry."

[ffyddlon]

"If you really want to do chores, you can, but nobody's going to expect you to earn your keep here. We all just make do with what's around and there's plenty of adults to take care of you. I can find you a bed in the crash room, though, if that suits?"

Gwen offers a hand for him to take if he wants and, if not, he can just follow along behind her.

[giveyouthis]

It's almost comforting to hear that there'll be people there to look after him. That he won't completely alone, the way that he's felt since the day his parents died. But there's also something in her words, too, that makes him stop and draws the worry out sudden, leaving him feeling nauseated. Plenty of adults to take care of him, she says, but what if they all disappear, too?

Sometimes he wonders, if he'd just done a little more, tried a little harder, not always spent his time reading books or playing games... would he have seen that Mr. Sawyer was a bad guy?

Still, he takes her hand wordlessly. "Okay. A bed. I wanna work for it, though," he mumbles.