Disclaimer- Yeah...surprisingly, I don't own Lost or anything to do with it.

A/N- Hey everyone! My first Charlie fanfic. Please read and review. It is greatly encouraged! Constructive Critisism welcome. I hope you enjoy...

Six Thousand Packets of Drugs

It was evening by the looks of it. When you are stuck on an island that changes weather so frequently, it usually was too hard to tell. Charlie Pace lay under his 'tarp' tent on the beach. How these people, Charlie though to himself often. Found tarps on an island... That was usually Charlie's favorite past-time of the day. Thinking about the unnecessary things. But one thing was on his mind for the past week that was very necessary, indeed.

The drugs that Charlie had found the previous Friday (the day to which was correct on Charlie's mental calendar) were also lying under the shelter which, unlike Charlie, were thoroughly hidden. He could hear the drugs calling to him. Some nights he could hear the Virgin Mary's beautiful voice calling to him. (A/N- I am very religious, but this is supposed to be from Charlie's view, I just wanted to straighten this out!) "Charlie...just one hit...Charlie...you will be doing nothing wrong...just one hit..." But then, as if out of nowhere, Charlie's better conscience took over him. The Virgin Mary telling him to forget the drugs. That there was no such thing as just one hit.That there were better things in the world.

What better things? Charlie would argue with the other person inside his head. Nobody else would care. Nobody else cares about Charlie the way it is. Who in their right mind would care?


Charlie thought about this for a moment. Did he, Charlie, care about himself enough to not become a junkie again? There is a lifetime of heroin in that mysterious jungle, just waiting to be taken. But did he have to be the one to take it? Could he burn about six thousand packets of drugs, just like he did for his one packet of heroin? After long, agonizing hours arguing with himself. He finally came to the conclusion of, No. He couldn't burn six thousand packets of drugs, but he could burn one. Each and every time he went for a hit, or two he told himself, he could burn that. Well, that was his plan for today. Tomorrow, definitely. Next week? Probably. Next month? Hopefully. If Charles Pace still wants to be the respectable man that he could be, he was only about six thousand days away from it.