Post by henryrocks on May 14, 2007 1:04:20 GMT -4
Note: This is old. I wrote the crux of this late last summer/early fall, back before we knew Henry's name or a number of other details about him. I loved trying to get into his head when I had no idea what was going on in it (and, amusingly, nearly one season later still don't.)
This is rough, and could be more finished - when I read the ending it makes me think there should be more. But I've finally just accepted that this is what it is.
THE DOOR
I. Sayid
He’d rather have died there than anywhere else.
It was true – he could have opened up, given Sayid what he’d wanted. But that would’ve hurt Them. In truth, Henry thought, it did not particularly matter what concerns he had for himself. Two options existed: escape or die, and the latter seemed imminent.
He’d felt certain that when the sun set that evening, the castaways would be outside digging through plants and roots, putting his beaten, bruised body back into the earth. His eyes might still be open, twisted a little as they had been in the last moments of his life, looking up into Sayid’s face, recognizing the look which meant that he was about to die. Here, on the field of his greatest battles – not of the physical kind, which he’d seen too much of. No, those of the mind, of his own wily and prevailing heart. It would be a fitting tribute, to go down now before Sayid without one cowardly, dissenting word having passed from his lips.
But he had won no glory. It was beautiful, both times - the way Ana’s hand had snapped up, shooting the fire upward, the way Jack’s arms had appeared from behind, wrapping around Sayid’s shoulders and practically carrying him backward. Sayid’s face was still ablaze, but once Jack had set him down, outside, his features changed. There was hatred, frustration, disgust. But also disbelief, and fear. I’m still alive.
Henry looked back at him, and for the first time since he’d arrived there a few weeks ago, knew himself to be what he had been before, with Them.
The door shut – merciful silence – and it was him and Dostoevsky again, the band of squabbling brothers, the inquiries into the nature of God. He’d pretended to be disappointed at the reading material. But dead Russian writers were far better company, he’d found, than most living people. It wasn’t something you shared with people, but in many ways, he thought, reading kept him alive.
Small help the food was. Old, obviously, but it was something – something with leverage, something to talk about, a chip – however small – for bargaining with. He could fast, possibly.
II. Ana Lucia
He had been staring at the wall opposite for fifteen minutes, the length of time that had passed since Ana Lucia left. He was still alive.
Twice a gun had been placed to his head, and twice he’d been delivered. Both times by Ana Lucia, surprisingly enough – first from Sayid, now from herself. She’d stood there, hate quivering in her dark eyes, having told him that this was it, and then the gun’s barrel had begun to shake. He’d watched in wonder as tears appeared in her eyes, her head turning away. On her way out she’d slammed the door harder than usual. But for now, he was safe.
He shook his head. Beautiful, confused Ana Lucia. Goodwin refused to believe him about her – understandable; the convolutions of observed personality were indeed the stuff of wonder. But Henry believed this much had been made clear: despite noble impulses, when pushed, Ana’s personality swung one way, and that was down. The only reason he was alive now was that they’d been alone, fifteen minutes ago.
Silence. Had she actually let herself cry? Likely his evening meal would be late, if it came at all. He could probably expect John in the evening, who’d be worked up after seeing what shape Ana’d be in. Henry closed his eyes.
Voices. He opened them.
Ana, clearly, and a man – one who’d never entered the hatch before. He sounded angry.
Michael. The knowledge, and the thrill, dropped down into his stomach, where it lay like a cool stone, as if he’d had expected it. Walt’s father – they’d let him go. And he was here. That meant – it could only mean one thing.
CRACK. The shot jarred him against the wall. Another – CRACK – and it was close.
Nothing. There was no point of standing up, of even trying to understand anymore. He, Henry, would now either die, here, on this pathetic pallet, or shortly be standing free outside the Swan, looking at all the familiar trees. He recognized also that while he might like to live, it did not particularly matter. He might be proud to die. He had said – had done nothing, given them nothing that their own actions hadn’t already allowed him to. He had freed himself.
The three new shots did not frighten him much, then. He accepted them as, likely, the acts of a half-maddened man, one-minded and fairly unintelligent. Yet again, he would sit here, on the thin gray mat, and wait for what the door brought. Ana, Locke, Sayid, Eko – they would bring him their questions, their silly statements, demand he talk or tell him to shut up.
But this man, Michael, was different. He stepped in with the gun and said nothing to Henry. Simply eyed him. Eyed him hard.
Henry rose slowly, looked back. He had to meet this man’s gaze, meet that crazed intensity with every inch of his own.
Wordlessly, Michael raised the gun to his arm. Shot.
Henry did not move for several moments. Partly because the man was still dangerous, partly because he was interesting. Like Ana Lucia, Michael was a curious mix of things, good and bad. Cowardly, and yet his own famous brand of impassioned stupidity allowed him uncommon courage, made him greater than he was. Seeing how this man took a bullet to the arm would be worth seeing.
A low-pitched shriek issued from his lips, and the man crumpled in one motion, hitting the side of the armory door as he fell.
Watching him, Henry recalled the feeling of the arrow. Not initially – the adrenaline had taken care of that. But later – shaking and gasping on the hatch floor. Pain like that almost kept one from breathing. But he supposed if he’d had to, he, Henry, would have put that arrow through his own arm. All that was needed was the appropriate stimulus – that, and the strength of personality to carry it out. The two of them really did have commonalities. He knelt beside Michael.
The man’s frantic eyes locked with his own. It was going to be severe, the bloodletting, but he wouldn’t die. Henry stood back up and stepped out.
Ana was on the couch. His gut seized up.
A quick, light death, that was all it had been. He took several steps more, made himself look at the other one, Elizabeth, whose blonde hair was falling over her face.
She was still alive.
Michael was moaning. Henry’s head whipped around, and he felt something smolder within him. Very well, he could understand relentlessness. All he had to focus on right now was making it home.
Out of pure instinct, he reached down, felt his shoeless feet. Barefoot. The ideal method of travel. If he so pleased, no one on this island could ever find him again.
Henry lifted his head, felt strength issue through his limbs. Now.
He went through the door.
This is rough, and could be more finished - when I read the ending it makes me think there should be more. But I've finally just accepted that this is what it is.
THE DOOR
I. Sayid
He’d rather have died there than anywhere else.
It was true – he could have opened up, given Sayid what he’d wanted. But that would’ve hurt Them. In truth, Henry thought, it did not particularly matter what concerns he had for himself. Two options existed: escape or die, and the latter seemed imminent.
He’d felt certain that when the sun set that evening, the castaways would be outside digging through plants and roots, putting his beaten, bruised body back into the earth. His eyes might still be open, twisted a little as they had been in the last moments of his life, looking up into Sayid’s face, recognizing the look which meant that he was about to die. Here, on the field of his greatest battles – not of the physical kind, which he’d seen too much of. No, those of the mind, of his own wily and prevailing heart. It would be a fitting tribute, to go down now before Sayid without one cowardly, dissenting word having passed from his lips.
But he had won no glory. It was beautiful, both times - the way Ana’s hand had snapped up, shooting the fire upward, the way Jack’s arms had appeared from behind, wrapping around Sayid’s shoulders and practically carrying him backward. Sayid’s face was still ablaze, but once Jack had set him down, outside, his features changed. There was hatred, frustration, disgust. But also disbelief, and fear. I’m still alive.
Henry looked back at him, and for the first time since he’d arrived there a few weeks ago, knew himself to be what he had been before, with Them.
The door shut – merciful silence – and it was him and Dostoevsky again, the band of squabbling brothers, the inquiries into the nature of God. He’d pretended to be disappointed at the reading material. But dead Russian writers were far better company, he’d found, than most living people. It wasn’t something you shared with people, but in many ways, he thought, reading kept him alive.
Small help the food was. Old, obviously, but it was something – something with leverage, something to talk about, a chip – however small – for bargaining with. He could fast, possibly.
II. Ana Lucia
He had been staring at the wall opposite for fifteen minutes, the length of time that had passed since Ana Lucia left. He was still alive.
Twice a gun had been placed to his head, and twice he’d been delivered. Both times by Ana Lucia, surprisingly enough – first from Sayid, now from herself. She’d stood there, hate quivering in her dark eyes, having told him that this was it, and then the gun’s barrel had begun to shake. He’d watched in wonder as tears appeared in her eyes, her head turning away. On her way out she’d slammed the door harder than usual. But for now, he was safe.
He shook his head. Beautiful, confused Ana Lucia. Goodwin refused to believe him about her – understandable; the convolutions of observed personality were indeed the stuff of wonder. But Henry believed this much had been made clear: despite noble impulses, when pushed, Ana’s personality swung one way, and that was down. The only reason he was alive now was that they’d been alone, fifteen minutes ago.
Silence. Had she actually let herself cry? Likely his evening meal would be late, if it came at all. He could probably expect John in the evening, who’d be worked up after seeing what shape Ana’d be in. Henry closed his eyes.
Voices. He opened them.
Ana, clearly, and a man – one who’d never entered the hatch before. He sounded angry.
Michael. The knowledge, and the thrill, dropped down into his stomach, where it lay like a cool stone, as if he’d had expected it. Walt’s father – they’d let him go. And he was here. That meant – it could only mean one thing.
CRACK. The shot jarred him against the wall. Another – CRACK – and it was close.
Nothing. There was no point of standing up, of even trying to understand anymore. He, Henry, would now either die, here, on this pathetic pallet, or shortly be standing free outside the Swan, looking at all the familiar trees. He recognized also that while he might like to live, it did not particularly matter. He might be proud to die. He had said – had done nothing, given them nothing that their own actions hadn’t already allowed him to. He had freed himself.
The three new shots did not frighten him much, then. He accepted them as, likely, the acts of a half-maddened man, one-minded and fairly unintelligent. Yet again, he would sit here, on the thin gray mat, and wait for what the door brought. Ana, Locke, Sayid, Eko – they would bring him their questions, their silly statements, demand he talk or tell him to shut up.
But this man, Michael, was different. He stepped in with the gun and said nothing to Henry. Simply eyed him. Eyed him hard.
Henry rose slowly, looked back. He had to meet this man’s gaze, meet that crazed intensity with every inch of his own.
Wordlessly, Michael raised the gun to his arm. Shot.
Henry did not move for several moments. Partly because the man was still dangerous, partly because he was interesting. Like Ana Lucia, Michael was a curious mix of things, good and bad. Cowardly, and yet his own famous brand of impassioned stupidity allowed him uncommon courage, made him greater than he was. Seeing how this man took a bullet to the arm would be worth seeing.
A low-pitched shriek issued from his lips, and the man crumpled in one motion, hitting the side of the armory door as he fell.
Watching him, Henry recalled the feeling of the arrow. Not initially – the adrenaline had taken care of that. But later – shaking and gasping on the hatch floor. Pain like that almost kept one from breathing. But he supposed if he’d had to, he, Henry, would have put that arrow through his own arm. All that was needed was the appropriate stimulus – that, and the strength of personality to carry it out. The two of them really did have commonalities. He knelt beside Michael.
The man’s frantic eyes locked with his own. It was going to be severe, the bloodletting, but he wouldn’t die. Henry stood back up and stepped out.
Ana was on the couch. His gut seized up.
A quick, light death, that was all it had been. He took several steps more, made himself look at the other one, Elizabeth, whose blonde hair was falling over her face.
She was still alive.
Michael was moaning. Henry’s head whipped around, and he felt something smolder within him. Very well, he could understand relentlessness. All he had to focus on right now was making it home.
Out of pure instinct, he reached down, felt his shoeless feet. Barefoot. The ideal method of travel. If he so pleased, no one on this island could ever find him again.
Henry lifted his head, felt strength issue through his limbs. Now.
He went through the door.
I'm glad you liked it.
Again, means a lot.
)
Glad I could help relieve the dearth of Henry-centric material out there.