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standardblackComing home was like stepping into an alien world after Puqhet...climbing the stairs to his apartment and walking through his door was a dash of cold water against his fragile psyche.
He dropped his bags in the middle of his living room to simply stare for a long moment, taking in the room around him. It was a study in depression, in despair...once neat and tidy bookshelves were missing volumes, texts leaning and scattered about the room. There were glasses, wrappers, signs of a man that no longer cared enough to make an effort. Clothes were strewn around, papers a mess...short, desperate little notes were littered about, detailing Sarah’s movements, names of men that *might* have been Him...
It was the den of a man who was drowning in his own misery.
Reaching up, Jack touched his arm where the ink lay beneath a layer of light cotton. It still felt tender, that sting reminding him of the characters now branded into his skin.
He walks among us, but he is not one of us.
The tidy, perfect little home he’d left was the home of a successful doctor. This was the home of a shadow. Jack was neither anymore...he didn’t know what he was.
You are a leader, a great man. But this, this makes you lonely, and frightened, and angry.
He was alone because Sarah left him. He was angry because she’d left him for another man.
But he was still afraid...and he couldn’t blame that on her.
The rage bubbled over, the pain of solitude blended with that fear in a single instant that redefined his home. It was a small thing, a simple thing...but it put things into different perspective for Jack as he drove himself to the hospital, and later as he set about cleaning up with only one good hand.
He worked all night, and by the next morning the apartment was pristine. Every shelf in order, every paper gone...every note carefully gathered and stowed away in a drawer to be pored over with careful consideration.
And the hole in the cheap plaster of his living room wall marred the meticulous order with a deliberation that satisfied him. He was in the neat, orderly home of a successful doctor now...just as it should be.
And at the heart of it all, it was the home of a man who never asked to be chosen by Destiny.
Muse: Jack Shephard
Fandom: LOST
Words: 412
He dropped his bags in the middle of his living room to simply stare for a long moment, taking in the room around him. It was a study in depression, in despair...once neat and tidy bookshelves were missing volumes, texts leaning and scattered about the room. There were glasses, wrappers, signs of a man that no longer cared enough to make an effort. Clothes were strewn around, papers a mess...short, desperate little notes were littered about, detailing Sarah’s movements, names of men that *might* have been Him...
It was the den of a man who was drowning in his own misery.
Reaching up, Jack touched his arm where the ink lay beneath a layer of light cotton. It still felt tender, that sting reminding him of the characters now branded into his skin.
He walks among us, but he is not one of us.
The tidy, perfect little home he’d left was the home of a successful doctor. This was the home of a shadow. Jack was neither anymore...he didn’t know what he was.
You are a leader, a great man. But this, this makes you lonely, and frightened, and angry.
He was alone because Sarah left him. He was angry because she’d left him for another man.
But he was still afraid...and he couldn’t blame that on her.
The rage bubbled over, the pain of solitude blended with that fear in a single instant that redefined his home. It was a small thing, a simple thing...but it put things into different perspective for Jack as he drove himself to the hospital, and later as he set about cleaning up with only one good hand.
He worked all night, and by the next morning the apartment was pristine. Every shelf in order, every paper gone...every note carefully gathered and stowed away in a drawer to be pored over with careful consideration.
And the hole in the cheap plaster of his living room wall marred the meticulous order with a deliberation that satisfied him. He was in the neat, orderly home of a successful doctor now...just as it should be.
And at the heart of it all, it was the home of a man who never asked to be chosen by Destiny.
Muse: Jack Shephard
Fandom: LOST
Words: 412
