Shattered

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness, and the bettering of my mind. ~ Prospero

Ben did not think about the news he had just been delivered – his tumor, improbably nestled
around his spine. It was terrifying to comprehend in the face of all he believed, so he didn't try. He
simply shoved it aside, clinically, for later study. Instead, abstractly, he thought about being shouted at.
About being accused of untruths, when he had gone above and beyond his duty to be as truthful and
gentle with Juliet as possible. And it had availed him nothing, not even after trying to dismiss what had
gone on with Goodwin. He felt sick and more than a little betrayed. If she knew what any attempt at
kindness cost him! His jaw clenched, though he paid that no mind. His thoughts rattled, an
abstraction formed into something more concrete. He would simply have to give her evidence. The
thought was sour, he was not required to justify himself to the others, and to do so for her... again, she
had no idea of the costs incurred.
At least Richard was already off island. It cut some time. Ben would have to call out to him
later on and make the arrangements. Richard would not be pleased by his decision, but it would go no
further than the three of them. He could bear that much – so long as word of this incident did not
stretch beyond them.
Ben remained in his home's office until the sound of Juliet's sobs had lapsed into silence. He
rose from his desk and stood framed in a doorway until the faint click of her departure reached him.
He waited another moment, and then another, for certainty's sake, and then slipped down the hall to
observe the darkening kitchen, the light catching in the pool of water, and the spray of broken glass.
He caught himself staring at the largest shards for a long time, thoughts slipping away before he
could grasp at them. He turned away and found himself a small bin for trash, and bent to start the
process of cleaning things up. He kept his thoughts carefully blank, shoving away the sick feeling,
shoving away the dull, throbbing sensation in his back. That put a frustrated snarl on his face for the
barest moment, and then calm again replaced it. He did not feel particularly calm, but he could force it,
pretend long enough to make it reality. So he tried, hard enough that he believed that it had worked.
Ben paused, the largest of the pieces caught between his fingers. The bottom of it was heavy, it
was comprised of most of the base of what had once been a drinking glass. He looked into it, seeing
the floor distorted through it, seeing his misshapen face caught in it in a glimmer. Alone. Different.
As usual.
His face contorted again and his hand clenched in response. An edge of the glass tore into his
thumb and he sucked in his breath, expression replaced with surprise. Ben dropped the glass into the
bin as if it were a snake that had struck out, and sunk down to the floor. He pulled himself into a cross-
legged position, hunched over like a weary, petulant child. His breath exhaled, shakily, and he raised
his uninjured hand to his face to hide the tears that had suddenly sprung up. He inhaled again, still
frustrated with himself, and caught a sob before it could escape.
He did not permit himself to think on why he cried, for he knew it was not from pain, but
instead fought against the images that filled his mind. He did not acknowledge the desperate word that
passed through his thoughts – Mom! - and he did not allow himself to believe that he wept for
everything 'normal' that he wanted that he realized, suddenly, he would never have. There would be no
room for closeness. Not for him. Not for as long as he served his woeful little utopia.
A second sob struggled against him, and then it was something new he fought against and not
sorrow. The clinical disengagement failed him, and the terror came back. A tumor, in this place?
Why? How had he failed?
“Jacob, you son of a bitch, I have done everything you have ever asked!” he hissed to the empty
kitchen. There was no response, much as Ben expected. The blood that had been running down Ben's
thumb pooled heavily into a fat drop that hung for a moment, perfect, before falling to his bent knee.
Another drop began to form. Ben took no notice. His eyes were closed behind his hand, willing the
moisture there to not do the same. Willing it to remain deniable.
He sat there for a long time, trying to erase the past hour from his mind. His thumb continued
to bleed, accusatory, a simple proof that he could not really succeed. It would not need stitches, his
thumb, but it would help to leave its own kind of scar.

****

When Ben finally pulled his hand away from his face, it was full dark. The water had dried, as
had his eyes. Glass still littered the floor. Pieces of it caught against the leg of his trousers, glinting in
dim moonlight. He looked at them, blandly. He felt cold again, properly so. He tilted his head,
acknowledging his internal restoration of balance. Juliet was now as she must be – simply one of them.
The things he had felt for her were shut away. They were inconvenient. They had been a distraction.
Perhaps that was what Jacob had permitted this affliction for. He had veered away. He had let himself
act for personal reasons. He -
The lights of Ben's home flicked on, and he jerked himself upright, lithely, ignoring the spasm
in his back as he did so. He blinked quickly, trying to adjust himself to the light in case of threat.
“Dad?” came a hesitant, untrusting voice.
“Alex,” he responded immediately, his tone flat and neutral. “I'm sorry, I lost myself in some
thought.”
She came around the corner, bent slightly, ready to flee. “In the dark?” She dropped her gaze
to the glass still scattered on the floor and to the forming scab on his thumb and her lips parted
questioningly. Ben swallowed heavily, feeling his balance begin to waver again. He narrowed his eyes
and Alex paused in her steps.
“In the dark. It was an important matter,” he said. His tone was brisk, cutting off further
discussion. He glanced down, clenching his fist and pulling the injury from her view. “You shouldn't
worry about it. I assume you were with Karl.” His tone dropped into disapproval.
Alex visibly recoiled, then rolled her eyes and turned away, obviously disgusted. It seemed his
every conversation with her tried to fall into anti-Karl rhetoric, but Ben couldn't help himself. Alex
sighed at him from over her shoulder. “It doesn't matter, Dad.”
“We have something to discuss.” Unsteadiness threatened to creep into Ben's tone again. He
felt the need to reach out, somehow, find some sort of acceptance. Get a grip on the fear. Juliet was
lost to him, but he still had Alex, he believed.
“I'm really not in the mood for it now.” And with that, Alex stomped down the hall and shut her
door against him. Locking him out.
Ben's hands shook despite his self-control. Anger warred with a sudden, fresh burst of
abandoned anguish. He allowed the anger to win out of necessity, and shoved the trashbin into a corner
with a curse. He would clean up the rest of the shattered glass tomorrow.
First he would go back to his office and restore the rest of his shattered self. Or at least pretend
all was restored. It would be enough. It would make it so.
No one would see him as anything more than he wished them to see ever again. He would not
permit that closeness. It incurred costs he didn't like to pay.

~Fin

(ABC's LOST is not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond
that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)
2009/27/4 - MDS