The Weak One
Shannon spends her days on the beach. She found her suitcase on the fourth day, filled with a dozen different bathing suits. She hasn't worn the same suit twice, because she can't stand wearing the same outfit more than once, and she refuses to wash her own clothing when rescue can't be more than a day (or two) away. She lays on the beach, posed for the admirers who are not there, and closes her eyes behind her sunglasses.
Shannon is bored. She had thought that if she kept her eyes closed long enough, and pretended hard enough, that the wreckage and the people around her would go away. The sun is warm, the sound of the surf soothing, and the beach beautiful, but there is no one here to entertain her: there are no men worth her while to admire how her bikini clings to the fullness of her breasts, accentuates the flatness of her stomach, and the long, lean line of her thighs. There are no girlfriends clustered at her side to giggle and sneer at Charlie's big ears, Hurley's fat form, Claire's graceless shuffle.
Boone tells her that there are things that must be done. Like rushing through burning wreckage in search of pens, Shannon thinks with disdain. Like rooting through suitcases: elbow-deep in dirty clothes, and strangers' underwear and useless trinkets. Like traipsing through the wilderness, hunting boars; or gathering loose twigs, and burning bodies. Shannon prefers the boredom, and keeps searching for someplace--anyplace--else behind her closed eyelids.
Shannon isn't stupid.
She knows what everyone thinks of her. She always has. She was little more than a child the first time she witnessed her mother shake her perfectly coiffed head and sigh: "Shannon is such a difficult girl." Her father believed her to be spoiled rotten, but he had still given her anything she wanted rather than listening to her. Shannon was and is an aggravation to Boone, a burden by which he proves himself a good and noble man. She was selfish with her friends; vain with her boyfriends; and a complete nightmare to the sales clerks who staffed the boutiques Shannon had frequented.
Shannon knows that she's already earned a reputation here: she is useless, self-centered, a bitch. She is below the notice of the hero of this little spit of land; she has been noted and dismissed by his brave heroine. She is very much the American to Sayid, and Sawyer doesn't see her at all, and wouldn't understand even if he did. She hears Boone making excuses for her, and knows that he's not talking about her at all. He's practically begging people to see that he's different from her; begging for scraps of attention, affection. He wants to be liked, needs it so badly that everyone will notice he's prey sooner than later.
Boone thinks that Shannon can't survive on her own. Her brother is an idiot, Shannon thinks. Shannon has always known who she is, and what she wants--and how to get it. Let Boone wear himself into exhaustion being Jack's errand boy; let him follow Kate and Sayid on yet another trip into the jungle, walking until blisters scar his feet. Shannon doesn't like people, but she knows them--and she won't go without food, or water, or shelter, so long as everyone here still believes in nice.
Shannon knows what everyone thinks of her, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care, because Shannon might be what everyone thinks, but no one has ever dared to think that she is stupid. She doesn't deny herself, and doesn't try to shape herself to other's expectations, and to hell with what other people think of her. Let them call her a bitch, because no matter what they say, Shannon is going to survive.
Shannon's not the weak one. She never has been.