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8:16 A.M. July twenty-something, 2007. He cut his finger making breakfast in his hotel room's kitchenette, drawing enough blood to cause a panic when he looked at his hand. He would not die. The wound was not large enough for that. But he had only the clothes on his back to bandage the wound, and, for now, those were the only clothes he owned.
He stuck his hand underneath the faucet, letting the water wash away the blood that had spilled over his skin. Late July. The date was sometime in late July. He'd have to check the calendar to be sure, but he knew it was sometime in late July. He didn't know how to cut fish properly. He had cut his palm instead.
“Something wrong?”
He sank down to the floor. His finger was still bleeding. A little pressure, a little time would stem the flow. Bandages would help if he could find them.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Two hands grabbed his injured hand and pressed it between them. “I'm all right,” Ricardo muttered, sucking off the new blood that seeped from his finger. He felt the skin of his hand change. He knew the cut would no longer be there when his hand was released. He reached behind him, grasping the edge of the counter top, knowing he would not succeed standing up. His mind was not fully here. He was staring into someone's bright blue eyes, old and wise and, as of two seconds ago, full of concern.
“All better,” he said, freeing Ricardo's hand with a self-satisfied smile.
Richard removed his finger from his mouth. It was late July twenty-something, 2007, past eight in the morning. His finger was still bleeding.
He would fly to Tenerife tomorrow. Frank was returning to the States. Miles and James didn't care where they were going as long as they escaped Sydney. Kate and Claire were the only ones who planned to stay. They had a child to raise, lives to resume. They were lucky: their lives had been on hold for a few years, a few weeks. Richard's life had been on hold for much longer.
“Why am I here?”
Richard paused mid-stride. He was here to pick up a few things for his trip. He was here for—
“I can't tell you that, Richardus.”
His own comb, his own brush, shaving cream. A traveling case for a toothbrush. More toothpaste. He examined a product that promised whiter teeth. All the boxes seemed to say that, even DHARMA's toothpaste had said that, Jacob had always said that. Always said “I can't tell you that, Richardus.” Not now. Not yet. In time, yes, but he would have to be patient.
The box of toothpaste fell from his hands. He picked it up, placed it where it belonged, and walked away. He did not realize until he left the store that he had forgotten to buy toothpaste entirely.
All his years being the intermediary, the right hand man, the whatever suited the leader's needs at the time and he'd never once been to Sydney. A week wasn't enough to enjoy any city. He was going to savor what time he had left here and hope that his travels would bring him back some day.
He sat on a bench and watched as people crossed through the park on a sunny winter afternoon. The day's paper was folded up beside him, full of the same news of chaos and mundane triumphs every human experienced on an individual level. The same lows and highs he experienced on the island: the unpardonable sin of murder, the small comfort of an apologetic embrace—Jacob's arms around his waist, Jacob's breath against neck, Jacob saying “I'm sorry” as if it would absolve the sins Richard had committed for him. Jacob once tried to drown Richard in the water in which they stood. Richard wished he would do that again, to convince Richard he was still human. This time, he wouldn't tell Jacob to stop drowning him.
Sydney, Australia. 2007. It was past 12 in the afternoon. He heard a woman laughing behind him. He stared at at his feet pressed against concrete, not sand, and felt embarrassed. He was losing his mind.
Richard entered the taxi and saw Jacob sitting there. He blinked, looked again. The backseat was empty. He gave the driver directions to the diner where he would say goodbye to his new friends, sinking back in the seat as the car rolled away. He opened his eyes and it was noon again, his hair was shorter and he wore a suit. Jacob was sitting beside him, dressed in the clothes of a civilian. He was smiling.
“Surprise.”
“What are you doing here?”
His own voice pulled him to the present with a start. The driver stared at the road ahead. Richard hadn't said anything. He grasped the edges of the seat around him, closing his eyes. There was no use fighting it. His mind would fail him regardless how hard he resisted; he just hoped he wouldn't make a fool out of hims—
“—saying hello.”
“What are you doing off the island? How did you get here?”
“Same way you got here. I hailed a taxi.”
Jacob smiled as if everything was so simple as hailing a taxi. As if Richard hadn't walked out of a hospital morgue that held a body he was responsible for.
“You look like you've had a long day, Richard,” Jacob said. “Want to get a drink?”
Richard stared at Jacob with restrained apprehension. The feeling subsided; it could not withstand Jacob's persistent smile.
Jacob requested the most secluded booth they could get, placing his book on the table as they settled in. Everything That Rises Must Converge. Richard examined the novel. He didn't think Jacob read modern literature. Or anything at all.
“What's on your mind?”
He scanned the summary. Had he read this book before? He didn't read much fiction. One or two novels a year, maybe more if he felt like brushing up on the classics, but he preferred to learn hard facts, not some daydreamer's theory about the world and how it worked.
“Are you going to answer my question or are you going to ignore me?”
“I'm not answering your question, Jacob, because you already know the answer.”
There was a heavy pause before Jacob spoke again. “It's Ben, isn't it? He's asked you to do something you don't like and now you're wondering why I let him be the leader.”
Richard placed the book back on the table. “I just killed a man,” he said quietly. “All because of this woman Ben wants.” He glanced at Jacob and asked, a bit louder, “Do you want her, Jacob? Is she on one of your lists?”
“Everyone is brought to the Island for a reason, Richard. She has her part to play.”
He'd ordered whiskey. Bad whiskey, he thought, but it served its purpose. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a generous sip, so used to the burn that it barely registered. “I watched her die,” he said after a pause. “This woman Ben wants. Somehow she's gonna wind up with the DHARMA Initiative and she's going to die because of it. Is that what you want, Jacob? Is that the role you want her to play?”
“Her death is very important to—”
“Why does she have to die, Jacob?” His voice was growing louder, loud enough to capture the attention of the other people in the bar if they cared to stop listening to their own sorrows. “Why does anyone else have to die? Why—” He lowered his gaze, lowered his voice. “Why do I have to keep killing for him? For all of them? For you?”
Jacob said nothing. He reached out for the hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey, not one of his blessings but a gesture of comfort. Touching people was what Jacob did, blessing (or cursing) them with what he said was a gift. Jacob had only “blessed” Richard once; afterward, his touches had meant something else.
“I'm sorry, Richard.” His voice was low, strained, trying hard to be what Richard knew was a mere persona: the stoic and wise leader, he who will save us all. “I wish I could tell you,” he said. “But you aren't ready yet.”
Richard threw off Jacob's embrace, felt his hand collide with the thick glass of an automobile. The taxi driver was staring at him.
“You all right, mister?”
“...yes,” he replied, lowering his hand.
The driver stared at him skeptically. “Well anyway we're here.”
Richard dug inside his pockets and extracted the money to pay and tip the driver. He stepped outside the car, feeling his clothes stick to his skin. He had been sweating. Nightfall was slowly approaching and the diner was across the street. He didn't know if his mind would let him cross without failing. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, remembering how he had seen Jacob just last month. Jacob had asked him “Do you hate me?” like a child calmly asking his mother why, why this, why that, why are we here, why can't we leave, why don't you love me, why—
“No, Jacob. I don't hate you,” he'd said. It wasn't the answer Jacob was looking for. That was one month ago, weeks before Jacob died, weeks before Richard had unwittingly helped Jacob die. One month ago was the last time he had seen Jacob, and he hadn't bothered to tell Jacob the one thing he wanted to hear. He wasn't even sure if he felt it, if he had ever loved Jacob. Hated him, yes. Tolerated him. Needed him, because he was the only constant in Richard's life.
He wished he could have told Jacob he loved him without that being a lie. He wished he could have had a life with Jacob without the restraints of following the leader, without the unanswered questions, without the days, weeks, months spent apart doing the devil's work of murder and betrayal. He wished they could have been like the couples he saw in the park, living life with its mundane problems, its mundane pleasures that needn't be like water in the desert, absolute necessities to keep one alive and sane. He wished their lives had been different because then he would be sane, living in the present and happy without his mind sliding in and out of the past.
It was July whatever at eight something in the evening. He fell back on a nearby bench and stared at the diner, knowing his new “friends” were wondering where he was, if he would come. He sat on the bench knowing he couldn't cross the street, knowing he couldn't walk ahead and move on with his life. He couldn't forget all the things he had done wrong. He couldn't forget Jacob.
He couldn't move on.