He That Dies

From the desk of Matthew Abaddon:

Abaddon:

Items extracted on the covert operation led by Naomi proved to be slim but positive. The only item found that proves that survivors had arrived on the island was a single journal by private investigator, Stephen Wilson. Further digging shows that Wilson has a record of constant offenses so it is unsure whether or not all, if any, of the journal can be trusted as fact.

-Dorrit

P.S. We have been cleared to contact Widmore.

August 4, 2000:

It's been 8 weeks since I've been home, and just as long since I've written in this journal. I have been on yet another stakeout and just when I thought there was something to this last case, it all went downhill… well, at least to me it did. I've got to be desperate for cash if I'm actually hoping that the guy I was spying on was cheating on his wife. Though, I must admit that the romantic side of me was relieved to discover that the old man was just hiding an elaborate anniversary surprise party for his wife. And though I was compensated for my trouble, it won't pay the bills.

My so-called "welcome home party" wasn't much fun. Heat, water, and electricity must not have gotten their invitations, since they are the most obvious absences. Their subsequent bills, however decided to crash. And I see they brought a new friend. Ah, final notice of rent, I haven't seen you in a while. It definitely looked grim, that is, until the phone rang.

It was some lady named Sabrina Carlyle from New York City. She must be either very well connected or very rich. I'm praying for the latter. I could do without the mob for this week. Whatever the case is she dug some dirt on me and is using it as leverage. And here I thought I was Scott-free from all those petty thefts. But I'll give her credit. She wanted talent, and she went straight for the best.

The job turns out to be a bank heist. She lent me the account number and some possible leads on a PIN. I don't know who this Rutherford guy is, but he must have really pissed off Ms. Carlyle. I kind of wished she hadn't given me all those leads. The job took about fifteen minutes total. I began to feel the slight twinge of guilt that normally follows a huge crime like this. "Why did I ever get into crime?" I thought to myself, "I should stick to this private investigator business."

I took one look at the bills on the desk, and Ms. Carlyle calls me again, telling me to look at my own bank account. The party had a happy ending after all. My guests finally had a reason to never shoe their faces again. I guess that was why I ever got into crime.

August 23, 2000:

It's barely been a month since I've last made an entry. Who knows? Maybe that's a tendency I need. Or maybe I have just gotten lazy trying to lift this gold Rolex up to make an entry. It seems that account hacking job has lasted me quite some time. One would think that the funds were not finite, but fate steps in once again.

Sabrina Carlyle's son, Boone, comes to my office making me an offer as an employee of his. At first, I thought he's just some messenger boy for her, but the longer I talked to him, the less I thought he knew about the job. The cash flow will be steady for some while, and he even mentions me as an investigator. When I finally asked him how he knew about me, he says that he found my card on my mother's desk. How about that? If I didn't commit a crime, I would have never found honest work.

September 11, 2004:

I sometimes hate being right all the time. My suspicions started when I first found out that I was supposed to spying on the man's sister. Not that I was complaining having to look at her all day and get paid constantly for it over the past couple years. But it turns out that she was the Rutherford that I helped screw over just a few weeks prior. And now I'm responsible for her last three boyfriends being paid off to break up with her. I'm starting to think that I should quit this business for good. Or at least sell this watch of mine.

But every once in a while an offer comes up that I can't possibly refuse (not to mention this fantastic watch). A tall, skinny man with dark eyes that you could feel on you through a led wall approached me this afternoon. He went by the name Matthew Abaddon. He showed me a number and offered to put a dollar sign next it, but not until I squeezed out a couple more zeroes and commas. I asked what the job entailed. It wasn't anything to fancy. Here's how it pretty much went down.

"Are you familiar with Grete Samsa, Mr. Wilson?" Abaddon asked.

"No. And call me Stephen."

"The reason you are not familiar with her is that she does not exist, Mr. Wilson."

"That would do it."

"The reason I contacted you, Mr. Wilson, is because my employer's have heard of your numerous talents and would like to make use of them."

"I'm retired."

"No one ever really retires from your line of work. They just go into hiding."

"You don't want to hire me as a private investigator."

"Very clever, Stephen."

So he wanted me to create Grete Samsa; make all the necessary adjustments to get the "legal" paper work in order. I obliged. And then he added that I would never have to worry about debt if I were to cut out the middleman and deliver it to his contact in Brisbane, Australia. Hell, I could use the vacation. I ask the name of his contact and all he gives me is a name: Dorrit.

September 19, 2004:

I met up with my contact, Naomi. I'm beginning to feel like James Bond going international running into all these beautiful women. Unfortunately, it hasn't gotten me laid though. Years from now, I'll remember the trip to Brisbane, but might wonder how I ended up with an airline ticket from Sydney so I might as well take note.

Just as I had made my delivery, I went to check the e-mail and found that someone in Sydney wanted to see me. It was some guy named Bryan. He said it was important. I later found out that his girlfriend is Shannon Rutherford. She elaborated on a plan to get the money, which I took from her, back. This had to be my chance at redemption. She apparently got my number from Boone and wanted to hire me to find her stepbrother. And I thought this family was screwed up before.

It took me nearly half of her mini-fridge to get the courage to spill the beans, but she offered to let me off the hook if I told her how to find Boone. What should I have done? I had ruined her life on several occasions. I figured this would make us square, and I told her where to find Boone. Luckily, while I was in his employ, I had to know where he was at all times. I gave her the number to the tennis club.

September 22, 2004:

I'm at the airport awaiting my flight, and I see the stepsiblings quarreling in the distance so I headed to the closest gift shop I can find and quietly hide behind a stuffed polar bear. Why is there a polar bear in Australia? Well, it hid me from them. So I think it's best not to ask too many questions.

I go over to get something to eat and run into an old friend from college. Actually, I was in college and I have him to thank for putting my skills to good use. The last I heard of him he was headed somewhere in South Korea or something. I waved him over to exchange pleasantries. He tells me that he's found a job as a messenger boy.

I catch him eyeing an Asian guy as we were talking. It was a subtle enough peek that only investigators, cops, and paranoid potheads would notice it. As the Asian guy walked into the restroom, he let me know that he had some work to take care of. And with that he was gone. I certainly hope that he implied he was involved in some sort of shady criminal activity. He looked all too comfortable in that tacky Hawaiian hula shirt.

As of now, I'm standing in line at Gate 23 of Oceanic Airlines trying to get on Flight 815. I see that Asian guy with who I assume to be his wife with an odd tension that the guy seems oblivious of. There's that Middle-Eastern guy that was being interrogated about a bag he left in the terminal, a pretty girl in cuffs being escorted by some sort of cop, and there's also that big Nigerian priest who yelled at a little Australian girl. God, I hope I don't end up on the same plane as these people. But, hey, what are the odds of that?

Later, on the plane- damn it!!!! I hate being right all the time. Only my luck would have done that to me, and fate steps in once again. At least this is only going to last a few hours.

November 17, 2004:

I've refused to write in this notebook for the past several months. But now I feel it is the only key to maintaining what is left of my insanity. I will try and recollect the past events since arriving to this… place. There was some strong turbulence shortly after we took off. All I could see on either side of the plane was ocean. Suddenly, there was a violent burst. There was a creaking so loud that I thought it was thunder. The tail started to stretch away until it finally broke off. I closed my eyes and felt the water rush at me from all sides. I reached for the release button on my seat belt as fast as I could. I kicked as hard as my legs could take me to the surface of the ocean. I couldn't move. I see everyone rushing to the shore. I thought I saw someone coming out of the jungle.

The screams I hear are terrifying. The heat from the fire burning the wreckage was excruciating. I see a beach in the distance and try to swim towards it. The salt water seeps into the fresh wounds on my face. I can't move. I try and swim, and then I realize that I can't move my legs at all. As if things couldn't get any worse, I hear more creaking. I look back and everything goes black. All I remember seeing was a part of the plane flying straight for my head.

I wake up sometime later in what appeared to be a hospital. I'm hooked up to tubes and an EKG. Some sickly looking neon lights turn on and there's a mirror on the wall. It looks like a two-way mirror, the kind used in police stations. A voice comes over a P.A. system: "Can you move, Mr. Wilson?" I still have no idea how they knew my name. I refused to answer mainly thinking I was dreaming the whole thing up.

A cute blonde, possibly drunk, bumps into the door at the side. She was followed by a creepy looking man who, call me crazy, seemed to care for her somehow for some reason. It was a different guy from the last creepy looking guy who looked like he was peeling off a beard while peeking into my room. I was pretty sure I was being observed, and I didn't have to be a private investigator to figure that one out.

Since I couldn't move, I decided to take a nap. That was when the dreams started. I saw myself in the middle of a jungle. All of a sudden, I hear whispers surround me, almost stalking me. A young boy named Walt appeared out of nowhere and all he said was "You're not ready yet." I turned around and saw a column of smoke towering over me like a creature about to attack its prey. It lunged towards me and before it could kill me I woke up.

"Good morning," the voice on the P.A. said, "My name is Dr. Patricia Price. I hope you slept well. I was wondering if you could write down what you just dreamed about."

I told her about the boy and she insisted that I write it down. I refused and they took me to a room that played some really tacky techno music and force me to watch some weird images on a screen. I've seen German existentialist movies that made more sense. But I was strangely drawn into the Clockwork Orange scenario. When they took me back to my room, Price assured me that I had only been in their care for the better part of a week. That didn't explain how I regained the ability to walk on my own.

I spent a few months just keeping to myself refusing to cooperate with these would-be kidnappers when I could. I studied their every move, but it was tough not knowing how many of them there are, let alone see all of them together at one place. I wasn't sure whom these people were, but I had to get out. Price has been somewhat kind to me, but I had to escape. And now that I have, I have no idea where to go from here. I'm pretty sure I was being followed by a guy with an orange shirt and bugged out eyes from that crashed hot air balloon. I better lay low until I can write again.

November 18, 2004:

I'm in the middle of the jungle. I'm not sure that I'm in a better position that I was back in that place. I think it was called "The Staff." This jungle looks familiar. It's probably nothing. I was lucky yesterday, but who would have a trap set in the middle of an unknown island? At this point, I think I'd benefit from asking questions later. I think I overheard him saying that his balloon crashed and his name was Henry Gale.

Maybe that means he wasn't chasing me, but now that I'm out maybe I can make sense of that dream I had last night. It was Boone and Shannon standing on the shore as I was coming out of the tree line. I hear the whispers around me and Walt appears to my right and tells me to look behind me. I saw two freshly dug graves. I turn back around to see that Shannon and Boone had disappeared. I walk towards the grave and see them lying there. Boone's leg was rotting, as was the rest of him. Shannon wasn't dead for long, but she was shot in the stomach. And then I woke up.

I've never felt this kind of remorse that burned inside me for so long. But then again I've never been so directly involved in the demise of people who never deserved it in the first place. I still have my watch on. I look at it and see the time is 8:23 in the morning. Well what do you know? It actually does take a licking and keeps on ticking. I used to look at it and see success. I never thought my soul would sell for so cheap an object as a Rolex.

November 19, 2004:

I knew I was close as I heard the ocean crashing on the beach, and smelled the salty sea air. I've never been so happy to be so close to the beach. In the distance, I saw a camp and recognized the other people on the plane. This has to be a dream. How did we all survive?

The young lady I sat beside on the plane, she called herself Elva, was standing just beyond the tree line. She was staring out into the ocean the way that I thought I was looking at Shannon and Boone in my dream. I got her attention and she brought me back to the camp and told me that the Rutherford girl and the Carlyle kid were both dead. It was a dead end, and it felt like I would not get my soul back.

I took a nap and had the dream about being in the middle of the jungle. They young boy appeared to me and took my watch. I let him and this time he said "Now you're ready Mr. Wilson. Now you're ready." I turned around and saw the pillar of smoke coming towards me. This time I didn't fight it. But I still woke up.

When I got up I took off my watch and asked Elva where Shannon and Boone were buried. I walked up to their graves, recognizing them immediately from my dream. I took the gold Rolex off my wrist. It was like freeing myself from one expensive shackle. The hole I dug should have been sufficient enough for the tide not to take it away. I buried the watch in between them and said a word or two to pay my respects.

The guy who was stopped in the airport by police was from Iraq and I recognized him as he came up behind me. Apparently, he and Shannon were an item and he came to pay her a visit just before inviting me to help collect firewood. I asked him where we would be headed. If my sense of direction is on point it's about the point in the jungle where I always am about to die. Fate steps in once again. I think I know what young Walt was trying to say and he was right. I am ready.