Restoration
by WriteToLive Rating: G
Warnings: Spoiler for the Season 4 finale
Summary: Jack thinks on his post S4 situation
Disclaimer: Don't own Jack, don't make any money.
There’s heat here,
and it reminds him of LA. Not all the time though,
because it rains here too. It never rains much in LA.
He stares out of the dirty window, down onto a crowded
street and wonders whether there really is safety in
numbers. Is he really less likely to be spotted if he
lives in a city? Even if he’s more obvious as the
only gringo in a small town, surely he could find
somewhere where they’d never look? He weighs the
odds as he stares down at the street, but doesn’t
move. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s dead
either way.
A woman talked to him last night as he left the grocery
store. She had long dark hair like most other women here,
but she's the first one thats reminded him of Claudia.
His heart had beaten faster for a moment, shocked into
reminding him that he was alive – but it slowed
under the pressing remembrance of guilt. He hadn’t
taken her away and she had died. He wished it were an
exclusive club, but the truth was…she was just
joining a hundred or so others that had died because of
him. And he was with her now wasn’t he? He had
killed himself. But he didn’t get the benefit of
Heaven. At least he knew there really was such a thing as
life after death. Too bad it was the same one.
There’s food in the dirty refrigerator that he
hasn’t got around to cleaning yet. He remembers that
someone once told him that there was pleasure to be found
in cooking your own food, that it connects you to
something real. You get to create, every night. He’s
tried it and it made him sick. He’s never been much
of a creator. Quite the opposite.
He did once though. His one masterpiece. She’s
sitting in Valencia, maybe she’s even crying over
him. He knows he’s cried over her, because
she’s almost as dead as he is. Dead men don’t
get to keep their kids. And anyway, it’s not like he
hasn’t tried to destroy his own work of art over the
years. Not on purpose, but still. Maybe Chase can restore
her to something she once was, or at least paint over the
cracks that her father created. Restoration is a
beautiful thing, but you need someone to do it. Funny how
love can fill most holes.
He turns from the window and stares at his surroundings.
Everything is grey. No colour, no life. Everything’s
drab. There’s no point in trying to make it any
different because he’s just passing through. Just
like he’s been passing through everywhere else for
two months now. Strange that it all looks the same after
a while. And what to do? No job to go to. No one needs
his help. No one calls to talk or see how he’s doing.
No news to impart to friends and no one to meet for lunch.
He’s hungry, but it’s a dull ache in the pit of
his stomach. Maybe he should try creating something. The
thought draws a small smirk. Try that again, you
really will be dead. And the smile fades when he
remembers – he really is dead anyway.
So…what? He thinks there really should be a way to
find life again. But there are only a few things he knows
how to do. And at this time, in this place – well,
he’d be a time traveller wouldn’t he? Because
the only thing he can do is go back to Ramon. Except that
Ramon’s dead too – but there are more like him
that still breathe. It’s an option. He thinks on it
for the few minutes a day he allows himself to, then
discards it as he always does. Being dead does not give
him the right to become a criminal. It was allowed when
he was alive but not anymore. It’s the one thing he
can do to make all this bearable. Strange that the lines
that were blurred a few months ago are clearer now. He
won’t cross them.
There’s a heavy sigh that doesn’t shift the
weight on his back. Restoration. How do you do it when
there’s nothing left to build from? He fell off his
pedestal a long time ago and there’s no one to pick
up the pieces. At least his legs were glued back on in
time for him to run, but on days like these, he wonders
if it was worth it. The heart of him stayed on the floor
when he got up and walked and he can never go back to get
it. The shell floats aimlessly and now it’s too late,
he’s a nameless entity that has no choice but to
drift on.
He strokes his own white cheek and the clock ticks on the
wall. He sits and the hunger continues to gnaw. But he
can’t create, no matter how often he tells himself
that he’s a blank canvas. He knows it’s not
true. He’s an over-paint. The dirty original is
still visible beneath the poor cover and cracks are
already beginning to show. He’s no artist.
Can’t restore himself.
He stares at the wall and eternity stretches before him.
But she doesn’t fade from his head and that’s
how he knows that somehow, he still lives. Not
here…but somewhere, in a quiet corner of his
baby’s mind, he had a life once. And that’s
what gives him the energy to keep breathing in this death
of his. He knows he may never lay eyes on her again but
still, he’ll borrow her colour to keep himself
moving - while a tiny part of him dares to hope that one
day, someone might find him worthy of restoration.
End
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