He knows he's not good at judging people. Everything becomes so very practical when you're a doctor. Everything's black or white, not gray in between. He used to hate that about his dad, when he was a kid. Hated that he was always wrong, not even partially right.

Jack wonders now when is it that he turned out like that. He doesn't like the irony that he muses on this after his third cup of brandy. His wife wouldn't have like this but of course she can't say anything now, three days after her funeral.

Where's the good doctor, the miraculous doctor, the one that made her be able to walk? He doesn't know the answer.
In the Island everyone gets the chance to a new life, or so he said. So he wanted to believe. Still he sees the same old routine of good ol' Jack, scout boy, defender of the weak where there's no white and black.

Maybe everything's the color of blue green eyes. Eyes like Kate's. Or Sawyer's. Or even Charlie's. Maybe he's just trying to think that because if the world's not blue green then it's blood red. Boone red. Boone that he couldn't save and Boone whose blood is over his hands. He wonders if the feeling will ever came off, or if he'll have to wait for new blood to cover it.

In that moment, Jack would have sold part of his soul for a good drink. He almost gives in to go ask Sawyer if he has anything but in the end he doesn't. That wouldn't be something that good surgeon M. D. Jack Shepard would have done.

He has lost patients before of course. But just that. Patients. They weren't people, not really. They were… sick beings that he could help, sometimes, if he didn't let go. And if not… maybe they were too weak. Or too damaged. Sometimes people had to die and like that, his patients remained faceless. No harm done.

How can he pretend there's no harm done with Shannons cries, when everyone in the Island knows someone of their community has been killed? He remembers Huxley's Island and he remembers Lord of the Flies and feels nauseas.

Maybe it's the lack of blood, or Kate's eyes. Or Sawyer's.

Jack dreams he is dancing with Kate on the beach. Her make up's ruined and she's blaming him of something, then goes towards Sawyer. His eyes aren't mocking him for once. Boone is waltzing with Claire and Locke's directing everything like if life was a fucking orchestra. He should go towards Boone, warn him. Or towards Locke, demand explanations.

Then he's waking up to a world he almost isn't part of. Even with only forty people, he still remains the stranger to most of them.

Life should be black and white. Everything would be so much easier then. Kate would be good, he would be good, Sawyer would be bad. But Kate's an angel faced girl hiding demons. She can't be pure. And Sawyer's a demon that sometimes seems like a lost kid. He can't be only evil. Constantly he thinks that he knows them, that he reads a change in blue green eyes but it's only the ocean's reflection. And Jack feels torn trying to get anything to resemble normalcy, at least at that.

His wife had hated routine and yet she had married a doctor and the doctor wasn't near her when she died. Jack remembers being alone in their house, waiting for a phone call that would never occur, still feeling her there. Sometimes he still feels her.

Sawyer will go soon. Kate isn't really there, at least not with him. Jack wonders how long it'll be until he can stop feeling them both. It's not like he has anything solid, black or white to do so.

It's just strange.