January 4, 2005

Truthfully, Walt hadn't been sure what this 'test' was going to entail. For starters, he thought he was crazy, and maybe he'd end up in a psych ward for seeing dead people. But, then again, maybe someone would believe him if he was truthful about his experiences – about what he'd seen on the Island.

That was far from likely, though. Walt wasn't stupid, and he knew that if he was completely truthful, that something bad would happen. He needed to lie. Pretend that none of it ever happened.

"Remember," Grandma said once they slid into the car, adjusting the glasses on her face. "Answer everything as honestly as you can."

Walt didn't respond. He watches the trees pass by the window as they drove, closing his eyes and imagining the spray of sunlight kissing his skin as he ran on the beach with Vincent. Those were memories he cherished – memories he missed. Others... not so much.

When he opened his eyes, they were parked in front of a large tan-bricked building. Walt frowned and grudgingly followed his grandmother inside, winding through the hallways until they entered a patient waiting room. The nerves spiking in his chest caused Walt immense discomfort, and he found that he couldn't sit still.

What if they found out he was lying? No less, what if they really did decide he was crazy and throw him in the looney bin? But what if I am insane? What if nothing I've seen is real? Those were thoughts he wanted to stay away from. Walt knew what he'd seen was real.

But... Walt frowned and wiped a hand down his face, beginning to tremble. Maybe the doctors would believe him, or even if they thought he was crazy, maybe they'd give him some medicine and send him home. That would be best. And... maybe the visions would go away. Maybe he'd finally get better.

"I can see you're thinking something." A familiar British voice snapped Walt from his thoughts and he whirled his head to the side, ignoring the cautious call from his grandmother. He made eye contact with Charlie, who was standing next to the wall, and his blood ran cold. "What is it, eh? You gonna tell 'em you were on a bloody magical island?"

Walt wanted to respond, but was terrified that he would say it out loud and look even more insane. No, he said slowly in his head, studying Charlie's expression. But I'm thinking this will end well if I just tell the truth about what I see.

"Hah!" Charlie wheezed and bent over, slapping a hand over his thigh. "Do you really think they'll just send you home?"

...Yes.

"Wrong. They will never believe you, and before you know it, you'll be behind a new set of bars you'll never set yourself out of." Charlie leaned back and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. "Is that something you want?"

Walt frowned. Of course not, but what other choice did he have, now that he was here? I... no. No, I don't, why would I want that?

"Good choice." Charlie snapped and pushed himself off of the wall, padding in front of Walt and tucking his hands in his jacket pockets. "If you ever want to come back to the Island, you're going to have to lie."

Lie... Walt had amused the idea, but he wasn't sure he could pull it off. If he was seeing a professional, wouldn't they know?

"That sounds like a you problem, mate." Walt realized Charlie could hear his unsaid thoughts, too. "Yeah, I can. And I suggest you stop thinking so hard and just go through with it. Otherwise..." He shrugged. "Bye-bye Island."

"No," Walt whispered aloud.

Grandma turned her head to the side. "What, honey?"

"N-nothing," he stuttered quickly. Walt looked back up at Charlie. I'll go back to the Island? One day?

Charlie shrugged. "What do I look like, your magic genie? It's up to you whether or not you want to come back to the Island. I can't make that happen for you. A dead person can only do so much."

Walt froze, eyes widening slowly. You're... you're dead...

"Well, of course!" Charlie scoffed and looked around the room, pointing at Walt. "You hear this guy? Asking if I'm dead?" He said it as if everyone else could hear, but no one even looked. Charlie turned his gaze back to Walt. "You can see dead people, Walt."

But... but how does that even—

"Shushshushush!" Charlie bent down and pressed his finger to Walt's moving lips. "Don't ask questions. Just do what you're supposed to do, and things may just work out in your favor." Walt narrowed his eyes and Charlie stood up, yawning. "All right. I'm out of here. Have fun, little man." Before another word could be said, the rockstar turned and walked out of the door.

Walt's eyebrows creased and he flexed his fingers, trying to decide if what he'd seen was real, and if so, if Charlie was right. He frowned, turned his head, and focused on the door. Any minute now. Then, a woman in a white uniform opened the door. "Walter Dawson?"

Dawson. The name angered him, sometimes. He couldn't go by his former name — he and his father had to be safe — but he wished his grandmother had chosen something different than Michael's surname.

Speaking of, Grandma stood up and thumbed Walt's hand. "Ready, baby?" she asked, eyes round and kind.

"Yeah," he said, biting back the fear that clenched his teeth together and set his jaw into a tight lock. He numbly followed his grandmother through the hallways, ignoring the screaming and crying of children in separate rooms. For some reason, it didn't bother him.

"Here." The woman that had called his name motioned toward an open door. "Mrs. Briggs is waiting inside." Grandma nodded and led the way into the room.

Walt eyed the woman sitting across from him, sun-kissed brown skin glimmering in the harsh light above. She wheeled herself around and smiled, but Walt could tell something wasn't right. Her grin was too toothy for his liking, too artificial. Mrs. Briggs rested her clipboard on her crossed legs and chewed the tip of her pen, adjusting her glasses. "Hello, Dawson family," she said, "how's everyone doing today?"

Walt stayed quiet, eyes trained on nothing but the carpet underneath them. Grandma spoke up politely. "We're doing good, thank you. How about you?"

"I'm fine." Mrs. Briggs shifted in her chair and fixed her piercing blue gaze on Walt. "Now, I imagine this must be very scary for the both of you. That's okay — it's a common preliminary reaction. That being said, I'd like to take you through the steps of what tests we'll be running on Walt — can I call you Walt? — and how they will be the deciding factor in his report." She smiled sweetly. Walt cringed away.

"Okay," Grandma said hesitantly, shifting her arm and slipping her fingers through Walt's. He shuddered and pulled away, visibly uncomfortable. If Mrs. Briggs noticed, she didn't comment on it.

"Now," the doctor began, "first we'll begin with a general screening test — nothing scary, just some Yes and No questions Walt will answer. If I come to the conclusion that there are symptoms present, we will begin to work our way toward either an MRI or CT scan. If not, I'll refer you to a professional that specializes in the boundaries of his . . ."

Walt tuned the conversation out, watching the spirals of patterns in the tan carpet swirl through his mind, morphing into the methodical swish of waves splashing on the beach shore, foam bubbling at his feet. When Walt looked up, he was surrounded by a pale, sandy beach, sun beaming high in the sky, rainforest rustling behind him. Walt tightened his grip on Vincent's leash and led the way down the shoreline, smiling when the water touched his toes.

Boone waved to him as he walked by, and Jack smiled at he and Vincent, joining Kate next to the pile of plane wreckage. Near the crash site, Walt was sure to avoid the specks of metal cutting into the ground, letting the honey-golden lab take the initiative. Just in case. He eventually wandered away from the group, sighing softly and letting his knees fall into the soft sand, hands fingering through the waves and salt and dirt. He smiled, content, and wrapped an arm around Vincent, scratching his head. "I hope we stay here forever," he said.

"Walt . . . Walt."

He snapped out of his trance, dark gaze meeting Mrs. Briggs. She looked him over for a moment, pen tapping on her clipboard, and hummed thoughtfully. "Well, now that I've explained everything, I think we can start the screening. Walt, if you'd like, we can take the test alone. However, if you'd feel more comfortable with your grandmother by your side, then by all means, feel free to let her stay."

"Um..." He shrugged. "I guess it's fine if she stays." Not as if I'll be truthful, anyway. He had to listen to Charlie's advice. If there was any hope of returning to the Island, then lying had to be it.

"Alright." She leaned back and clicked her pen open, fumbling with the case. "Now, these are just Yes or No questions, so don't be too intimidated, okay?"

Walt nodded slowly.

"First off, Walt, do you ever hear or see things that other people around you can't?"

E..

His tongue almost worked against him. Walt furrowed his brows and kept his composure, trying to breathe. "No," he lied.

Mrs. Briggs marked something on the piece of paper. "Do you struggle to trust that what you think is real?"

Yes.

"No," he said.

"Do you feel that you have powers that other people can't understand or appreciate?"

Walt stiffened, but quickly smoothed it over with the roll of his shoulders. He thought about seeing his mother, and Charlie, and... what else? Truly, weird supernatural things — powers — had revolved around his life for quite some time. Dead birds, whispering at night, his gut pulling him back toward the Island.

Walt swallowed shakily. "No."

Mrs. Briggs hummed. "Do you feel like you're being tracked, followed, or watched at home, outside, or at school?"

"No."

"Do you struggle to keep up with daily tasks? Showering, brushing your teeth, eating all three meals, you know." She waved her hand and smiled reassuringly to Grandma.

"Um..." He scratched the back of his head. Grandma would know if he was lying about this question. "Sometimes, I guess..."

"Do you find it difficult to organize or keep track of your thinking?"

"...No."

Question upon question upon question was really starting to get to him —

"And, lastly, do you feel like you have little in common with family and friends?"

He exhaled thickly. "Depends," is all he gave.

Mrs. Briggs paused and lowered her clipboard, fixing Walt with an intense icy stare. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to be alone for the questionnaire? If you have anything you need to tell me, I'm perfectly okay to send your grandmother out."

Walt felt the terror gripping his shoulders, fingers of paranoia and fear holding him down. "N-no, I'm sure," he said.

Grandma frowned.

Mrs. Briggs adjusted her glasses again. "Let's talk about this incident I keep hearing about. Would you mind running me through what happened?"

His throat went dry. What did he say? I definitely can't say anything about my mother...maybe... He shouldn't have told anything to the school. Now he was caught up in this mess, and had to lie to get himself out of it. "I- I thought I saw someone I knew," Walt mumbled, "and I got scared and.... and ran..."

"That's pretty far to run, Walt." She checked her paper. "From what I see, you ran at least a mile and a half away from school. In addition, you told the principal — as well as your nurse and counselor — that you saw someone named Charlie, as well as your mother. Is this correct?"

Walt couldn't breathe. His chest constricted, all air flow puffing out of his lungs. He desperately tried to find a lie, tried to connect a puzzle piece that simply didn't fit. It felt like there was nothing he could do. I can't lie anymore! And then he heard Charlie's echoing voice in his head, blunt and emotionless — if he didn't lie, he would never return to the Island again.

It was that simple. Hah, simple.

"It's okay, hunny," Grandma said, patting Walt's back.

He frowned and tried to make it appear as if he'd been trying to remember. "To.. to be honest.." His voice came out tired and grated. "I don't remember much. I don't remember talking about seeing my mom..."

Grandma and Mrs. Briggs exchanged a glance, something that Walt couldn't decipher. It hopefully wouldn't matter, as long as his fib passed. Mrs. Briggs eventually smiled, sweetly deceptive. "Walt, would you mind waiting outside while I talk to your grandmother?"

That didn't sound great, but Walt shrugged anyway. "Sure." He stood up and retreated from the room. He heard the muffled voices inside and hesitated. Was it wrong to eavesdrop? No, it's about me. I deserve to know. Walt slowly pressed his ear to the door, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

"I'm unsure of what exact incident your grandson suffered from. If he has ever exhibited signs of schizophrenia, then he wasn't truthful. If that's not the case, however, I believe that Walt may have suffered from some kind of anterograde amnesia, possibly even dissociative amnesia, which usually stems from a traumatic event. If I may ask, why does Walt live with you?"

Grandma didn't speak for a moment, he heard. "Walt... his parents died."

"Both?"

"Yes. His mother from cancer, in Australia, then his father... not too long ago."

Mrs. Briggs hummed. "That may very well be the case, then. However, I'm still not completely convinced that this isn't something else. Until I know more, I don't have authorization to process a CT or MRI scan. Would you mind keeping a watch on Walt until your next appointment? Here are some of the exhibited symptoms. . ."

Walt grew bored and trailed off of the conversation, stepping away from the door and leaning on the wall, blowing air through his chapped lips. There were so many words that had been used — schizophrenia, amnesia, dissociative amnesia — he wasn't sure what to think. In truth, Walt had no idea what they meant, but figured it was better if he didn't know.

He waited a little longer, trailing in circles until the door opened. Grandma blinked at him and smiled softly. "C'mon, baby, we're going home."

"Can I go back to school now?" he asked.

Grandma looked at him curiously. "You want to go back to school?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I don't have much else to do."

"I think it would be better if you stayed home for today at least. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess."

As he and Grandma checked out of the doctor's office, Walt looked back at Mrs. Briggs's door and wondered what would've happened had he actually told the truth.

* * * *

January 10, 2005

Time had passed slowly.

It was hard to explain. After the doctor's visit a few days ago, he'd been wondering how to continue acting fine and relaxed. Every day he wondered if he hadn't lied efficiently enough, if he hadn't convinced Mrs. Briggs, if he'd never go back to the Island...

Hah. Relaxed. To be honest, Walt couldn't relax. He couldn't stop stressing, couldn't stop the visions, couldn't stop seeing his mother. Sometimes he'd walk into a classroom and she'd be standing right by the teacher, looking at him with a sad smile. Walt would just pretend she wasn't there and move on with the lesson.

She'd been appearing less, but still. His odd behavior had attracted a few guys that used the better time of their lives harassing Walt. Whispering about him in class, sniggering when he walked by in the halls, spreading rumors. It didn't completely bother Walt, but he just wished people wouldn't believe the nonsense that went around school. There were so many more important things, but everyone seemed intent on making his life a living hell. Oh well. He could deal.

Until the guys found out his dad was 'dead.' And his mom. And how he was living with his grandmother, and was practically an orphan. When they confronted him that day, that was the day he snapped. And that was the day things became infinitely worse.

"So. Your daddy's dead, eh?"

Walt had been rummaging around his locker, backpack curled in his hands. He clenched his fingers but ignored Tyrone. If he gave them attention, he knew it would only get worse. My dad's not dead. He's just crazy. Only you have to know. Don't tell them anything.

"Yeah," Dameon chimed in, a smirk spread across his ugly face. "So's your mommy." His voice was high and mocking. "Whatcha gonna do, rich boy? Sad you don't live in Australia anymore?"

"How do you know that?" Walt asked calmly, trying not to lash out. He turned to Dameon, brows furrowed.

Dameon's eyes lit up. He'd gotten a reaction, finally. "We googled your name."

What? But how? Something thick, like horror, clawed up his throat. We changed my name. No one's supposed to know who I am. How did they find me just by looking up my name?

"N-no," Walt stuttered.

"Hah!" Tyrone laughed at him and slapped Walt's backpack out from under him. "You in the ghetto now. Rich kids don't survive here for long."

"Hey!" a shrill voice called from the other side of the hall, garnering their attention. "You three boys get to class. Your passing period ends in two minutes."

Walt glares at Tyrone and Dameon as they walked away, a swagger in their stride. He decided that he hated them. Hated them for finding out about his life, hated them for trying to hurt him, hated them for being so mean. He just wanted to be left alone.

He wanted to be back on the Island. Unfortunately, it seemed like that was never going to happen, was it?

The days dragged by. Dameon and Tyrone still harassed him, but now it wasn't just them. They had a whole posse behind their backs. Walt ignored them the best he could, but that was becoming increasingly hard to do. Now that they knew about his past — however they did, because Walt didn't really know — they seriously deemed him as some sort of... threat.

It was pathetic. Still, that didn't mean they were stupid. In fact, most of the time, teachers thought they were friends. Tyrone and Dameon always laughed about it — after all, how could they be friends with someone like Walt? — and that seemed to only make it worse.

Four days passed.

Walt would remember it for the rest of his life. He'd been waiting for the bus to pick him up and snatched one of the unread newspapers sitting on Grandma's desk before he left for school. Here he was, sheltered under a tree so the rain didn't get to him, staring at the words that he genuinely couldn't comprehend.

OCEANIC SIX RECEIVES HEROES WELCOME.

The London Daily Tribune.
January 14, 2005.

After the infamous crash of Oceanic Flight 815 that was found submerged in the bottom of the ocean on December 5, 2004, six survivors have been rescued and brought back into the United States.

Jack Shephard, Kate Austen, Aaron Austen, Hugo Reyes, Sun Kwon, and Sayid Jarrah were found half-submerged in a raft on the eastern coast of Sumba, Indonesia. Local fisherman helped them from the water.

The U.S. Coast Guard and Oceanic Airlines brought what are now called 'The Oceanic Six' to a private military base in Honolulu. They were reunited with their family and spoke in a press conference moderated by public relations representative Karen Decker, where all five survivors claimed they had washed ashore on Membata, an uninhabited Indonesian island. For 103 days they lived on the island, and in that time, Kate Austen gave birth to her son, Aaron Austen.

On the 103rd day, a typhoon washed the remnants of a fishing boat, a raft, and supplies to the island. The survivors took their chance and landed on a fishing village, Manukangga.

The press conference has been released online. However, the Oceanic Six's privacy should be respected after their experience, and we hope to support them during this trying time.

The smudge of raindrops blurred the words, but Walt didn't have to be a rocket scientist to understand what they meant. They were back. They were back, and they had lied. It felt like a brutal blow to the chest.

After everything they'd been through on that damn island, the Oceanic Six came back and got to dictate Walt's life. For what? Now, he would never be able to tell the truth. He would never be able to admit that he'd been stuck on an Island for more days than he could count. No one would ever believe him.

When the bus arrived, Walt seated himself on it but didn't feel completely... there. He ripped the article out of the newspaper and stuffed it in his backpack, mind feeling fuzzy. The rage burning, hotter and hotter, until Walt simply couldn't feel anymore. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Most importantly, he wanted to know why they had lied.

But he probably never would. He was just a dumb kid that didn't know anything, right? They probably didn't even trust him because of his dad! And he was who knows where by this time. His grandmother would never know what had happened to him, and Walt was simply bound to be an outsider for the rest of his life. The sheer intensity of the truth fell on him like a ton of bricks, and it truly hurt.

School dragged by. Walt found it close to impossible to focus on anything but the Oceanic Six. At least the guys were leaving him alone today. Walt was tired of dealing with them.

In the last period of the day, Walt stood up when the bell rang, intent on hitching the bus back home. However, Mrs. Dower had different ideas. "Walt. Would you mind talking to me?"

He stopped in his tracks and internally sighed, turning on his feet as his classmates streamed past him. Dameon gave him a dirty look when he walked by, but didn't dare say or do anything with their teacher watching. Once everyone had left the classroom, Mrs. Dower stared at him. "Everything okay, Walt?"

"Yep," he said.

"Are you sure? I tried to call on you but you didn't even look at me."

Walt froze. He didn't remember that at all. Was I really so spaced out? He curled his fingers in and made sure not to show that he was trembling. "I was just daydreaming."

Mrs. Downer looked uncertain, but nodded anyway. "Alright. Just remember that I'm here if you need anyone to talk to."

He swallowed thickly. "Thanks."

That night, Walt hit his pillow with a groan, absolutely exhausted beyond all recognition. He turned on his side and let the warmth of the sheets draw him into a different time, somewhere he'd never seen before...

Waves lapped through the ocean as Walt opened his eyes. It felt like he was floating — his body was completely suspended in air, his legs swishing back and forth through nothing but the air. He turned his head and recognized that he was in some sort of dream, but wasn't exactly sure what it would entail. A scream suddenly ripped from his throat, but he wasn't sure why. There was no pain.

Suddenly, Walt was thrown forward into a series of flashes. He saw a freighter, a dead body laying head-down in the water, a loud helicopter whirring above in the clouded sky, a plume of smoke, the Island. The rainforest shivered with the impact of a bomb, and Walt saw someone scrambling through the mass of fire and debris, and he nearly choked because it was his father.

Michael dropped down next to the wall — it looked to be somewhere inside the freighter — and held on to a piece of paper, eyes screwed shut. "I love you, Walt," Michael whispered, before his entire body was disintegrated by the explosion. Walt could feel the flames hungrily lap at his face, could feel the heat burning under his feet, could see the helicopter flying away, could hear screaming and crying and—

Walt jerked awake. Harsh, heavy breaths wrenched from his throat, sweat drenching his entire body. His eyes widened with the sudden realization of what he'd seen. Michael. His father.

He was dead.

Involuntary sobs ripped from his jaws. Walt curled his arms around his legs and drew them into his chest, salty tears dripping down his cheeks. His father was dead, and he'd never gotten to say goodbye. Never gotten to say 'I love you' for the last time. It hurt. It was so much worse than his mother's death, because now he actually felt something, wherein before Walt had been.... numb.

He pressed his face into his palms and let his shoulders shake with his cries. The last sight Walt would ever have of his father was that of his last moments on the freighter, of his body submerged as ashes.

And, maybe, the last time he'd ever see the Island.