It was raining so hard that Charlie felt like he was being pummeled with tiny golf balls. His head felt like he was getting an extra hard massage but it was anything but pleasurable.

He couldn’t see where he was going, and he didn’t really know which way to turn. He just knew he had to get to her, had to see for himself that she would be okay. He was tired of sitting around on the sidelines and being the one that can be pushed aside as easily as a tiny insect. He was more than that.

Branches were pushed aside and rain rolled down his back, soaking him; his shirt was plastered to his chest and his hair was flat against his skull but he didn’t care.

He broke through a clearing and saw them standing a few feet away. Though he couldn’t see them too clearly through the downpour, he could make out Ethan and Jack in some sort of scuffle. He took a step forward, but his shoe hit something hard and he looked down to see something shiny lying in the overgrown grass. He bent down, blinking rain out of his eyes; he picked up the gun.

It was heavy in his hands; he’d never held one before and didn’t expect it to weigh that much. They always seemed so weightless when other people were holding them.

Charlie heard Locke’s yell and then everyone was gathered around the fight; Ethan was laying on the ground and Jack was standing above him, kicking him.

Claire was far away from Charlie, at the other side of the clearing beside a huge tree. His heart ached when he looked at her, and he felt this overwhelming urge to run to her, but he stayed where he was.

Ethan was sitting up, but before he could really get anywhere, Sawyer was pointing his gun at him. Charlie expected to hear a gunshot, but none came.

He glanced at Claire, who was crying, and a tiny part of him died inside. He hated this man more than he’d ever hated anyone. He hated Ethan for what he had done to him, but mostly he hated him for hurting Claire, for causing Claire to forget everything that had happened on the island. For causing Claire to forget he existed.

He lifted the gun, without realizing what he was doing, and pointed it at Ethan’s chest. Within a second, Ethan was laying sprawled on the ground, blood oozing out of his wounds.

Charlie expected to feel relief. He expected to jump for joy, seeing the blood staining the ground and being washed away in a tiny tidal wave of rain, but that feeling never came. He felt absolutely no emotion.

Claire was staring at him, as was everyone else, and he looked up at her, his eyes softening.

The gun was slick in his wet fingers and he loosened his grip; he hadn’t realized he was grasping it so tightly, but he could tell his knuckles were white. His hands were shaking and he was freezing and numb all over.

But at least she was safe. That was really all he cared about at that moment. Ethan was dead and Claire would be okay.

And Charlie would be okay too.