Chapter Text
The sand grew rougher and wetter with each touch. Jack sat between the grass and the sand, his knees as close to his chest as possible. He stared far out to sea, the sky covered with dark clouds, and the rain fell gently, causing the paint on his face to fade and drip down onto his bare stomach and legs. It was quite early... and Jack couldn't sleep.
He never could...
Not on this island, absolutely convinced that something was watching him, following him. Not that he was afraid, after all, Jack had never been afraid; he didn't believe the childish tales whispered even by the smallest members of the group. He might turn around from time to time, but only to see if anyone was awake...
Maybe Roger, maybe Maurice... Anyone, yeah...
Anyway, it wasn't like he was afraid to be alone, that someone would be there to tell him he was doing alright, that he was a good leader, that he was strong, that he wasn't... a failure. Nope, Jack doesn't need that.
His blond hair, always slightly curly, now clung to his forehead, his chin rested on his knees, and his thoughts wandered to the darkest recesses of his mind, his fingers digging in the wet sand. Making all the sand seep under his fingernails.
Even though a sudden bolt of lightning struck the sea, the clouds darkening even more.
Jack didn't even move, and the paint, or rather, the near-absence of it, became more uncomfortable. It fell with the raindrops down his chin, white mingling with black.
Ralph's words had been running through his head ever since he'd been sitting here. In silence and alone, all the worst things always came back to him...
"You're a failure!"
Those words buzzed in his head like an echo in a cave; he couldn't shake them.
Not even much time had passed, maybe a day or two.
That tone of voice, that look, that facial expression... disappointment, anger, maybe at himself, maybe at Jack and the others.
It all reminded him of only one thing: back then, at that moment, the only thing Ralph resembled was his father, when Jack had made a mistake, gotten poor grades, or failed to learn something right away. His father always wanted Jack to be perfect, to win everything, to avoid being an embarrassment to him and his family. He didn't care about "growing up," but expected Jack to be mature immediately, always judge him, he couldn’t cry or contradict him, to avoid being a failure.
Despite this, his father was something Jack admired. He considered him someone respected and important.
His father wasn't home most of the time, and when he was, it was usually loud, he got easily iritated and argued with mother, then at most she'd cry, immerse herself in work, and wouldn't leave the office for hours, ignoring each other and everyone around her.
He was strict, just like mother; they wanted everything to be perfect.
Well, that was when Jack was coming home for Holydays. When his parents stopped taking him, Jack wrote them letters, a lot of letters. He thought they were probably busy, or maybe that's what he wanted to think, because they'd never written back.
He thought about them every day... but did they think about him too?
Before Jack could even think about anything else, salty, small tears joined the rain streaming down his face, and he sniffed.
And he buried his head in his knees, sobbing quietly and pitifully, hugging his legs.
More lightning bolts struck, and with them, Jack calmed down a bit, imagining how pathetic it all looked... he just felt so sorry for himself: what would his father think if he finally came to save him and see him like that?
He wiped his cheeks with the palm of his hand. When suddenly he felt a tentative, light pressure on his shoulder, another hand and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.