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]

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.