February 6, 2005

"Walt?"

He tilted his head to the side and stared at his counselor — he couldn't remember her name, even after 'the incident' — with a half-lidded gaze. "Yes?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Sorry," was all he said. Walt's eyes flicked to the name card on her desk. Mrs. Bell. That was her name.

She sighed softly and placed her hands in her lap. "I was asking if Dameon and Tyrone have been harassing you."

Walt prickled in surprise, frowning deeply. "Why?"

"Another student said she saw them being mean to you." Mrs. Bell didn't take her eyes off of him. "Is that true?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"What do they say?"

Walt's throat felt like it closed up. He rubbed at his eyes and wiped beads of sweat off of his forehead. "Uh, they just.... talk about my mom and dad, I guess. They call me a 'rich boy.' It's more annoying than anything."

Mrs. Bell appeared to be very alarmed, but Walt wasn't sure why. It wasn't that big of a deal, was it? "What do they say, specifically?"

This was feeling all too personal. "I think you know," Walt managed to choke out. "My parents are- are dead, so. They were just mocking me. One time they tripped me, another they shoved my backpack off of me.... yeah."

She stood up suddenly, a strained smile on her face. "Thanks, Walt," she said smoothly. "You can go back to class now."

Walt didn't see Dameon or Tyrone the rest of the day. He shrugged it off — maybe they were skipping or tracking down another victim — and continued on, not bothering to let his mind trace back to them.

Besides, Walt had other things to worry about. It'd been almost a full month since the Oceanic Six has become worldwide news. In addition, a month since Walt had experienced the nightmare — or vision, or whatever that was — about his father dying. Every time he thought back to it, he grew more numb. The emotions that had once struggled in his chest were completely gone. Walt felt nothing anymore. He wasn't sure if he should be worried or relieved.

Okay. Really, though — the Dameon and Tyrone situation was eating at him. The next day, Walt didn't see either of them. Another two days passed and they were still gone. He pondered whether or not they could've run away like the idiots they are, but figured that didn't make much sense.

On the fifth day of the dynamic duo missing, Walt eventually decided to shove his thoughts to the back of his mind and focus on other things. The bus wasn't coming today so he was going to have to walk home, which. Well. Sucked, considering it was pouring rain. Grandma was working and didn't have time to get him until at least 7, and there was no way Walt would wait for another three hours. He'd make it back home before then.

Wiping his nose, Walt opened one of the side doors to the school and grumbled when water droplets sprayed across his clothes, beads dripping down his hair. He resigned himself to his fate. Walt was definitely going to be soaked when he returned home. He looked around the roads for a while and eventually turned down an alley a block away from the school, shoes scrabbling across the gravel.

There was a sudden pained feeling in his chest. Walt paused and narrowed his eyes, stopping in his tracks. A sharp kick in the gut made him dizzy. What the hell was going on? The fear and paranoia began to set in, and before he knew it, a group of shadows whirled around his vision. Walt raised his head and gasped when a knee connected to his face. His head was blown back by the impact and he toppled over, collapsing to the ground. Through the haze, he made out Tyrone.

"You little shit!" the boy snarled, Dameon on his side. Walt noticed a few others, but wasn't sure who they were. "You got us suspended!"

"Snitch!" Dameon spat.

"I- I didn't-" Walt tried to speak but was silenced by a sharp kick to the gut, and it felt exactly like before — right before all of this had happened. He gasped through his heaving lungs and dug his fingers through the gravel, desperately trying to reach for some kind of lifeline. Another shoe connected to his ribs and he cried out, breath dying in the back of his throat.

"Pussy!" Tyrone laughed. "Can't even fight!"

Walt slowly pulled himself up to his knees, blinking slowly and groaning. "Hey, pl- please," he croaked. A harsh slap to the face brought him back into reality. Walt felt his skin split under one of the other guy's punches and a horrid, stinging pain accompanied. He wailed and fell back to the ground, where another punch landed on his nose this time. Walt swore he saw stars.

And then.... quiet.

Quiet.

That was often a foreign concept to Walt. He listened to the sheets of rain falling from the sky, soaking through his bloodied mess of clothes. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, whirring him back to the Island, in a time where it had always rained, where he'd always taken great pleasure in sprinting through the jungle.

Suddenly, Walt was crying. His crying turned into sobbing and his sobbing turned into screaming. He couldn't move his body — every time he shifted, hot, white pain flooded through his limbs. His eyes were crusted and he could feel the blood splattered all over his face, could hardly breathe through the pain in his abdomen. He dropped his arms to his sides and let his fingers curl under his clothes, gently running them over the bruises. Walt was almost glad he couldn't see.

The next moments were fuzzy and unclear. He definitely saw a red truck somewhere in the shadows of his peripheral vision, but the world became muffled afterward. Walt could see the blur of colors and sounds somewhere inside of a hospital. When he awoke again, he was fastened down to a white bed, leather straps digging into his skin. Walt suddenly couldn't breathe and began to thrash, arms wildly thrashing. "Help!" he screamed, and all Walt could see was Henry Gale's face.

"Baby! Baby, it's okay—" Walt sobbed at the sound of Grandma's voice and shook his head, collapsing back into the bed. Fat tears ran down his cheeks. His grandmother unstrapped his wrists and rubbed her hand over his, murmuring something sweet and quiet that he couldn't really understand, but comforted him nonetheless. He eventually fell asleep again, and when he awoke, a nurse was checking over his vitals.

He groaned softly and flexed his weak fingers, trying to piece together what had happened. Walt's body felt like a damp blanket sinking into a soft mattress. The pain that was formerly present had faded away, dimmed into nothing more than an itch.

When the nurse noticed that he was awake, she quickly turned off one of the lights. He let out a small breath and relaxed in the darkness. "Hello, Walt." A cheerful voice brought him out of his exhaustion. He would've groaned, but his throat felt like it'd been subject to a whirlwind of fire. "How are you doing?"

Resigning himself to his fate of silence, Walt mutely shrugged, wincing when a flicker of pain passed through his aching body.

"Do you know where you are?"

His eyelids cracked open slightly wider to take in where he was. Clearly a hospital — but why? Everything before was fuzzy, a tangle of memories he couldn't quite piece together. The steady rhythm of his heart through a machine stirred him back into reality. Beep, beep, beep.... Walt's gaze flickered to the nurse and he nodded hesitantly.

"Great!" She grinned and turned on her heel. "I'll be right back to get the doctor." A few moments later, a tall man walked through the door, onyx eyes gleaming like stones. He strode forward, almost mechanically, and Walt realized the nurse wasn't there. He puffed out a startled breath when the doctor crawled on top of him, crushing Walt's beneath his own weight. A pair of hands wrapped around his throat and Walt began to choke, body bucking in an attempt to escape. He was bound by the leather straps, though, and a darkness began to filter around his vision, making everything a foggy haze, and he couldn't breathe—

"Hey, shhhh."

Walt was brought out of his nightmare as soon as it was over. A scream ripped from his throat and he began to jerk wildly, the restraints cutting into his skin like hot metal rods. He refused to open his eyes, terrified that he'd see the black-eyed doctor, but registered the voice to belong to his.... grandmother..? His beating heart calmed in his chest and Walt breathed in roughly, trying to filter oxygen through his pained lungs.

"Hey, baby, it's okay—" Someone moved around him. "Let's get these awful straps off of you." He flopped back into the bed, tears involuntarily leaking out of his dark eyes. The confusion and pain was becoming almost too hard to handle. More voices filtered through the room but they were dull in comparison to Grandma's. She was angry. He could feel it. But not at me.

"Ma'am," a deeper voice said, "I'm sorry, but we had no choice. Your grandson was—"

"Do I look like I give a shit what my grandson was doing? He was attacked and you restrained him like a dog about to be put down! This is inhumane!" his grandmother snarled.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but again, your grandson wouldn't cooperate to the medicine or our attempts to calm him. I'm sorry that we upset you, but we can take them off now."

"I will!" Walt opened his glassy eyes and Grandma sharply moved her head back, smiling softly. "Hi, babe." She loosened the straps and slid them off, a nurse doing the same on his other arm. Walt exhaled and brought his aching arms to his chest, rubbing his fingers over the bruises. Those will hurt later.

Then, suddenly, everything rushed back. He saw Dameon and Tyrone and their boys, and the blood was pooling around his body — he could see it as if he were an outside spectator. He registered some kind of truck pulling up to his side and dragging him inside, but everything after that was dark. Walt wasn't sure how he'd even made it to the hospital. "What-" His voice grated against his throat and he coughed deeply, chest rumbling with the effort and pain. "Happened...?"

Grandma was quiet, for once.

The main doctor spoke, uncertainly making his way to the front. He side-eyed his grandmother and eventually smiled, but it was strained. "You've suffered multiple bruises to your lungs and have a few stitches on your face. It's not as bad as it sounds, trust me. As for what happened..." He cautiously glanced at Grandma.

She went next. "You were attacked in the alley," she growled, eyes fiery and alight with rage. "I talked to the school and they suspected it was two boys — Tyrone and Dane, or something. Do you remember anything? Do you know who they are?"

The doctor realized he wasn't needed and bent his head down in an awkward sort of bow, leaving the room. The two nurses exchanged a glance and eventually followed suit, leaving grandmother and grandson to converse.

"I..." Walt ran a hand down his face and shivered at the touch. He could still feel the agony pulsing through his entire body just from the ordeal. "I- I was called to the office earlier today." He cleared just throat and Grandma handed him a glass of water. He sipped it gingerly, trying not to to cough. "They wanted to know if Dameon and Tyrone were..." He trailed off. "Were bullying me."

"Were they?" she asked, eyes trained on Walt.

He shrunk under her gaze. "Y-yeah, I mean, sometimes."

"What did they do? Did they say anything?"

Walt closed his eyes and re-opened them. "Just talked about my parents. Called me a 'rich boy,' said I'd never belong at Liberty..." He shrugged, wishing the discomfort could just slide off of his shoulders. "Just hit me sometimes. It was n-nothing bad, really. But then someone saw them and reported it, I guess..."

"So you told the office," his grandmother said, nodding. "Okay. That's good. But.... do you think it was them that hurt you?"

Walt nodded. "It w- was. I remember. They were mad 'cause I got them suspended."

Grandma ground her teeth together and patted her hand on Walt's leg, trying to smile. It didn't work very well. "We'll figure this out," she assured, more to herself than anyone. "Trust me."

He did. If Walt knew one thing, it was that Grandma was fiercely protective over him.

The next week passed by rather quickly. Walt had been discharged from the hospital after a full day and night, but was told to stay put in his bed for another half month before he could return to school. However, Walt wasn't sure about Liberty anymore.

Neither was Grandma.

She'd made several visits to the school since his 'accident.' She always tried to convince Walt that they went fine, but he could tell she was furious by her shaking hands and sweating forehead.

Grandma eventually came clean and admitted that she'd been demanding Liberty not allow Dameon or Tyrone to return to the school. However, they didn't have 'evidence', and it was 'school policy' to let them return after a week and a half suspension. Grandma threatened a lawsuit but Walt knew they were too poor to do anything against the school.

At least, until a check of $200,000 came into the mail, a note attached that read: Complimentary for Michael Dawson's business.

Grandma didn't want to take it at first, but Walt was able to convince her to keep it. His chest constricted at the mere that they'd only received that check because his father had died on the freighter, but figured it would be best to keep it to himself. Besides, the note never said anything about Michael's death, so it was better if Grandma never found out.

So, with this new great sum of money, Grandma decided to leave Liberty behind and move to New York City. Walt wasn't any stranger to being uprooted from his home and thrown into another chaotic situation, but New York City had certainly been unexpected. They were going to leave when he healed — and once that time came around, Cooperstown would be a speck in Walt's memory, buried under a layer of trauma he simply never wanted to address.

* * * *

April 22, 2005

Two months flew by Walt in what felt like a matter of seconds. Before he knew it, he and his grandmother had moved to New York City, bought a nice apartment down in SoHo, which. Well, it was nice. Of course, going out on the streets was vastly different than Cooperstown — people walked everywhere, the muffled honks of taxis filled the empty space at night, and it seemed the bustling would never end.

The people-watching was nice, as the smart tourists retreated from Midtown and Times Square to enjoy another side of the NYC experience. Walt walked to school — which was much closer and much larger — and, dare he say it, he actually enjoyed it most of the time. People were nicer and there was less judgement to pass around, as people from all over the world attended Fieldcroft School.

And then things started happening again. Walt began to see people he shouldn't have been seeing, like a couple who muttered about how they'd been buried alive, or a half-blown man with pieces of skin dangling from his face, and then he was seeing Shannon and Boone and— well.

He sometimes wondered how Vincent was, if he was even alive, or if he'd died long ago, just after he'd left on the raft. The thought saddened him. He missed his dog. Luckily he hadn't spotted ghost-Vincent yet, but unfortunately someone else began to show themselves.

His mother.

She didn't speak to him anymore, instead opting to stare, glassy eyes never trailing from Walt. He continued trying to ignore her, whether it be through avoiding eye contact or even pretending she wasn't there, but it gradually became harder and harder. The nightmares returned, visions of falling sheets of rain flashing through spires of lightning, fat green leaves drooping from the weight of the water. Walt usually saw Locke. Sometimes, he would be clinging to a tree, trying to escape a polar bear, but the trunk would begin to shrink and the branches would slide down like jelly and Walt would fall at the paws of the creature, and before he knew it, he'd be awake before he could watch himself be ripped apart by bloodied teeth and sharp yellow claws.

And then, on May 5, 2005, Walt spoke to his deceased mother for the first time since the incident at Liberty.

"What do you want?" he muttered as he clambered onto his bed, sweatshirt sleeves dropping down his wrists. Walt curled his arms around his legs and brought them to his chest, listening to the drowned sounds of rain outside his window.

Susan stared at him, mouth gaping dumbly. She eventually sat down across from him, but there was no depression in the bed, no feeling other than icy cold. "I just want to see you," she finally said.

Walt forced himself to look at her, fingers curling and brows furrowing. "Why? You're dead, Mom."

"I know."

"Then why don't you move on?" He waved his hands. "Can't you just... leave me alone?"

His mother hesitated, bringing her legs on top of the bed and crossing them over each other Indian style. "I can't."

Walt felt his heart shrivel up and die in his chest. "You can't move on?"

"No."

"Why?" His desperation grew, expressing itself by clawing across his throat, cracking his voice into splintered cobwebs.

Susan tried to speak, but no voice came out and her jaw grew stiff, mouth contorting into something ugly and pained. Her eyes sparked away and Walt watched as she dissolved, disappearing from thin air as if she'd never even been sitting there before. His mother was gone.

After that, she didn't appear for another month. Summer was slow, mostly because Walt had no friends and almost nothing to do. Sometimes he used the computer for mindless games and stupid 'YouTube' videos, but nothing ever amounted to the fantasies Walt created in his head. Most of them were related to the Island, simple wishes that he could run across the sand with Vincent to his right, both splashing through the waves and the foam and the sludge.

And then, finally, she showed up again. She was hardly visible along the crest of the horizon, but Walt saw her while he was outside, looking out over the water on one of the piers. She was almost translucent, just a haze in the world, but she was there.

"You're back," Walt murmured, voice shaking. He looked at her, begging her to respond or make some motion that she could hear him.

Susan slowly inched her head to the side, fixing her dark gaze on Walt. "Yes." Her voice was a whisper, as if she was taking great care in keeping her energy.

"You never answered me before," he said, going straight to the point. "How do you move on? Is there any way I can help?" I'm so, so tired of having to see you. Walt didn't say that aloud.

She took a small step forward, raised her hand, brushed her fingertips over Walt's cheek. He swore he could feel the ghost of her touch. "I can't move on until you move on, Walt." Susan slowly withered away, spirit twirling and twisting until she was a speck of dust flickering through the air.

I can't move on until you move on, Walt. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looked across the water, the splashing waves and the bellowing of ships along the shore, and wondered what exactly his mother meant.

* * * *

Seven months had passed. Seven months of indescribable confusion and resentment, seven months of hot anger toward the Oceanic Six for never visiting, seven months of living in New York City.

It wasn't always bad, of course, but Walt knew this wasn't where he belonged. Every single night he dreamed of the Island, dreamed of the rumble of thunder as rain splattered over the forest. He was twelve years old now, almost old enough to hit puberty (which he couldn't say he was looking forward to), and dreading the lifeless years that NYC would bring until college.

Unfortunately, Fieldcroft School held some sort of aura that allowed Walt to fit in. In fact, he grew quite popular, which was a first. People looked up to him — people wanted to be his friend. He really wasn't sure what to think about that, since his only friends had ever been those on the Island and Vincent, but tried to take advantage of it.

So, Walt was thrown to the top of the food chain. Teachers adored him. All of the guys were eager to befriend him, eager to invite him over and do whatever it is they wanted to. Sometimes they shot BB Guns, or played video games on the computer, or watched shows like The X-Files and Friends. Grandma even let Walt and his 'friends' go out on the streets and explore, with a curfew and boundaries of course.

Seven months also brought the first time Walt had ever been asked out.

There was a girl that hung around his friend group, pretty nice but nothing special that ever really stuck out to Walt. Brown-haired, tan-skinned, gray eyes. She tried to talk to him sometimes, but Walt was awkward and uncomfortable in social settings. Still. She introduced herself as — what was it, Janice? Jane? — and Walt did the same. They hung out sometimes in class. They were partners in science. Really, that was the only time he ever saw her.

And then he was in the cafeteria, standing in line for food when he looked up at the TV. Breaking news. A red Camaro was involved in a live, high-speed police chase. Walt's eyes widened when it was cornered and crashed, rolling on its wheels. But most shocking wasn't anything else except for the person that came out of the car, hands on his head. "Don't you know who I am? I'm one of the Oceanic Six!"

Hurley.

Walt felt something horrible, like acid, rise in his throat. He took a step back, hands shaking, eyes not leaving the TV screen. It was Hurley. He was being arrested. Why? What had gone through his brain to tell him running from the police would be a good idea? Was there something bigger behind it? Why had none of the Oceanic Six come out with the truth yet? Were they still scared? Where was everyone else that had been on the Island? Where was Locke?

He turned on his heel and ran. Walt hardly heard anyone, didn't look at the people curiously glancing up at him, and certainly didn't see Janice standing in his way. He puffed out a pained breath when he shoved himself into her shoulder, spiraling painfully. "Walt? Are you okay?" He didn't know where the voice was coming from, but everything became horribly overwhelming, like the world had been turned to high volume.

Walt sped out of the cafeteria and found a bathroom, palming the door open and locking it behind him. He flicked on the lights and breathed harshly, clawing at the wall for some semblance of breath. Walt grabbed his legs and felt himself sag to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He began to sob, tears specking his cheeks, and he couldn't stop— couldn't stop the memories, the anxiety, the fear, the guilt, the anger, the grief.

Both of his parents were dead. Brian wanted nothing to do with Walt. The only person that had ever understood him was gone, and he was left with nothing but a clueless grandmother. He couldn't even say that Michael was around anymore, because he wasn't. Walt had never even gotten to say goodbye. The last true memory he'd have of his father was the night Michael had tried to return and Walt had watched through his window. His father had waved and Walt had shut the curtains.

The weight of everything came crashing down all at once. Walt felt his vision beat in and out of the shadows and wondered, for a moment, if he was going to pass out. Help. Help me. He tried to speak but no words moved past his lips, only harsh and ragged breaths that tore his throat apart. Walt's world toppled in a matter of seconds and suddenly he was on the cool tile floor, hands splayed out awkwardly, trying to find something to grasp on for assistance. He rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the dark stain where water had caved through the roof. Drip. Drip. Drip. Walt couldn't tell if the wetness on his face was from the continuous pouring of rain outside or his own tears. Both, maybe.

Jesus Christ.

Why was he having a panic attack? Was seeing Hurley on TV really so shocking? Had the Island traumatized him so much that he couldn't even look at his old friends without having a complete breakdown?

It took several minutes for Walt to push himself back to his feet and for the fog in his head to clear. He pushed a trembling hand forward and clicked open the door, staggering out of the bathroom. He sidestepped and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He had to calm down. Nothing bad had happened. He was fine.

"Walt?"

His eyes snapped open immediately, brown gaze falling on Janice. Walt's shoulders hunched and he wrapped an arm around his wrist self-consciously. "Hey," he said, hoping the red marks around his eyes weren't noticeable anymore. No one needed to know he'd been crying.

"Here's your backpack." She smiled softly and set his bag down, pushing it over to him. Walt watched her and nodded slowly, wishing he could thank her, but he feared any more talking would trigger a worse breakdown than the one a few minutes ago. He expected her now to walk off, leave him be as it was so awkward not talking, but she didn't. Walt looked at her, wondering what she wanted. Janice twirled a finger through her hair and bit her lip. "So. Um." She spluttered over her words, cheeks blossoming into a cherry-red. "Hey, are y- you going to the dance tonight?"

Confusion swept over Walt. "Dance?"

She nodded. "Yeah, the New Year's Dance. It's tonight, but- um- I don't have anyone to go with, and if you didn't, I was gonna see if maybe you'd-- go with me-?"

The last thing Walt had expected to hear from Janice was something about a dance, but knew that there was absolutely no way he'd be attending. He needed to get home, crawl into bed, and forget about the day. Actually, forget about his whole life. "Why would I go to a dance?" he eventually decided on.

Janice visibly deflated, hope-filled eyes sparking away. "Oh." Her voice was flat with disappointment. Walt didn't comment on it. "O- Okay, well.... I guess I'll just... see you tomorrow."

Walt nodded and watched her walk away, feet dragging across the ground. He turned his head to the side, breathed in deeply, and walked off, backpack in hand. Sixth period passed quickly, as did seventh. The bell rang and Walt trudged out of school, 'friends' on his side. It all felt artificial.

That was really the only word Walt could use to describe his life anymore. Having friends didn't make him happy. Seeing old ones didn't, either. It seemed the only thing he had to look forward to was the Island, but it was still a glimmer across the water, a speck in his vision... and, if Charlie's words had any truth in the matter, Walt wasn't even sure he'd ever even return to the Island.

The thought was so dark and depressing that Walt crawled into bed, threw the covers over his head, and blocked out the world.