Blank Slate

Title: Blank Slate

Summary: How one yearns for the relief in writing, but to the troubled relief is picky.

Rating: Pg-13

Warnings: Mild language and mentions of drug-use.

Status: Complete

Disclaimer: Lost belongs to J.J. Abrams and I do not own, nor am afficilated with, The Beatles.

He wishes he could be inspired. The blank page stares up at him, mimicking the acacing need in the pit of his stomach to write, to form words, beautiful words, like he used to be able to do effortless. To be able to pour out his soul with no regret, masking it was characters of song and pronouns taken into point-of-view. But instead of an idea, Charlie's eyes dropped in protest, reminding him of his sleepless habits. Kicking drugs was hard, harder than he thought. At least the first time he had a little support: Locke telling him he was proud of him, Jack saying he was doing the right thing. But now all he received was anger and a few looks pity. Not even sympathy. Pity.

What were the odds that no one else on the island had ever done drugs before? Smoked like Sawyer? Was a doctor like Jack? It was almost as though they had been handpicked, like treats in a candy bowl. Children could pick out exactly what they wanted, what made them happy. Just like the island could. Like someone carefully theorized who should die and who was left. If only, Charlie thought desperatly, something could be taken from all of it. Even if it was just a song. Because songs made people happy, right? They could relate to them, make them feel wanted, understood. Suddenly you weren't alone.

But yet the blank page mocked him, infuriating Charlie so much that he balled up the paper in his hands like dough, the weightless material adding another pound in his hands. He realized bitterly there wasn't a fire in front of him he could burn it with, and with that he reazlied how ridicculous it would be to burn a perfectly good piece of paper. After all, it wasn't like they had an endless supply. Dharma didn't seem to have a soft-spot for guitar players. A new pick would be nice, or a full notebook for writing songs he would never think of. Frantically, as if it would suddenly reveal a code to ideas, freeing him of his desperate need to get his words out with paper and pen, Charlie unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on his knee. Still it was blank.

Now he was just frustrated. Not only did his mind feel dizzy from the feeling in stomach, but Charlie had sunk to an all time low as a professional, for true writing came from the soul, where your emotions lay. Ideas bought inspiration, when one yearned for the feeling of relief. But relief was picky. It too liked to pick its miracles, leaving those who lie alone in darkness to fend for their own sympathy. But he needed to write something. Even if it was just his name. So he did. 'Charlie Pace' was soon spread about the page, Like I'm bloody in love with myself. He admited, though, it felt weird, as his named seemed useless, despite the importance one felt to uphold a personality in this place. And how did Charlie's personality work? In words.

Sighing, Charlie decided it'd be best to clear his mind. Something would come if he waited. It always did. An idea for a present for his mum or something to do for food. Funny how those two thoughts appeared simutamously. But what did it matter anyway? If they were stuck on this rock for the rest of internity, how was it even possible that they'd be remembered, that their souls would lay to rest? Sometimes Charlie wondered if the island concidered him dead after Ethan hung him. Like Jack brought him back just for kicks, just to laugh at one day: "Hey, remembered that time I saved your ass?" Of course, he didn't think he'd ever heard Jack curse. Things just seemed to go downhill for so long. Claire was missing for what felt like years, he killed Ethan against the other's request, Boone, Shannon. And now..

Now felt like a whole new world. Now was the reason he so desperatly needed to write. It'd been so easy before, without the drugplane with what felt like an endless supply. It'd been so easy before, when Claire was by his side, smiling because her beautiful baby would finally be born in weeks. And Charlie would be right there to help. Now all of that was gone, his life reuined. He didn't even have Liam to blame anymore.

His stomach grew tight when he remembered the first time he realized Liam ruined his life. For years he was in denial, that it was a mutual act, but cruel truth hit him like a cold ocean wave. Drugs had been in his hand, of course; if they weren't he wouldn't of being thinking about them. While the fix did it's magic the world seemed at peace. Until he needed more.

At the time of his realization, the apartment he was in was small and cramped, hardly a home, but the couch felt comfortable underneath him at the time, and the armrest took out their deed as a good friend when the tears came. It wasn't long before Liam himself had walked in, asking him why the hell he was crying, they had an audition to go to. Charlie had thrown curses at him, broken a pot of plants, made a few death threats, and refused to go to the audition. The audition had been for a gig at a local pub where the big stars hung out during tours. They could've been famous. Afterwards Liam repeated Charlie's actions, but days later all was forgotten. Liam had probably been on drugs as well.

To this day he wondered how the band would have changed had they not gotten hooked on drugs. Would they have become millionaires, perhaps richer than Paul McCartney? Bigger than the Beatles? Charlie laughed dryly at the thought. After all, it was they who dressed in baby diapers for an attempt at a weeks paycheck. The Beatles couldn't have even thought of going to an airport without getting bombarded by screaming, crying, girls, Even guys. Of course, even they experimented with drugs.

Maybe, he thought, the drugs made him creative. Without them his head felt unfamiliar. The drugs seemed to say 'welcome back'. Now his thoughts snarled and wondered who the imposter was. It would all pass, he assumed, slowly, but surely. He couldn't think straight, at least, not on his good days. On his good days Claire would talk to him, or at least awknowledge him. On his good days, she would even take his hand. It wasn't much, but it was a sign. Locke believed in signs. He believed that Charlie could kick the drugs, move on. Charlie supposed Locke had good intentions when he hit him, after all, he had just kidnapped a baby. Most of his anger went towards the fact that Claire chose Locke to protect her. From Charlie. She was using his mentor against him, and it angered him into more drugs.

But now Charlie was willing to put that behind him, because he knew that he wouldn't wake up someday and realize this was Claire's fault. Instead he'd wake up clean, smiling. The air would smell fresh and salty, welcoming, unlike the dampness of that apartment. People would smile and be proud of him, and he wouldn't even need to be famous. Claire was just a protective mother, and why shouldn't she be, especially with the history with the others? He knew this would pass, he had faith; and that was something he hadn't had in a long time. All of this led up to the drug's new spot at the bottom of the ocean, sinking with the plane wreckage that marked the line between that world and this one. The line between the blank page and the back cover. The line of a second chance.