A/N::: I loved this book. Had to write something on it :)

Disclaimer::: I don't own :(

Do Not Forgive, Do Not Forget

*Twenty Year Time-skip*

Dear Mr. Merridew,

This letter has been sent according to Roger Wilson's will. Mr. Wilson has recently passed away due to an incurable disease. Very unfortunate. However, at his request, you are to attend his funeral to bid final farewells. The address and date when the service will be held are below. It is unheard of ignoring a dead man's final request, so I will see you there.

Sincerely, George W. Harrison

Attorney

The red headed man stared at the card blankly, his eyes glazing over as though he could see a hidden message buried deep within the card. Memories of the boy, who he had never seen become a man, bubbled to the surface of his mind, already overtaking his peripheral. He thought he caught a glimpse of an onyx haired boy rushing past, in his kitchen, had a jarring, unnerving urge to chase him down. But he refused to listen to the savagery of the thought.

He blinked once, twice, before taking into account the date of the service and address. He crumpled the letter hatefully, into a tight ball. He cursed, suddenly feeling angry at the world. He knew he shouldn't have read it; but he did. And now the bluntly worded paragraph and its scriptured address were burned into his mind. The thought of seeing any familiar faces… after the years running, hiding…

With nimble as ever hands, he snatched his lighter, immediately turning the cream-colored card into a blazing ball of fire. But the action backfired, the acrid smell of smoke sending his mind into a down spiral as images, glances of the past, threatened to drown his very being as he inhaled the smoke. His senses prickled as the flame neared his fingertips, shoving him back towards reality as he rushed to douse the fire and memories that would not stay down.

The rush, the passionate feeling of ripping into the soft, delicious flesh of the pig, was overwhelming. Jack watched as, all around him, the tribe, his very own Hunters, attacked the piglets, watched as they screamed in joy as squeals of terror filled the air.

He froze, the memory of his first mass kill feeling so achingly real. He clenched his fist, feeling a spear, his wooden spear, digging into his flesh. He could almost taste his very own thoughts, as though any second they would come to life…

Jack could not contain himself any longer; he let loose a shriek full of sadistic joy and ecstasy, bringing his knife down again and again, adrenaline pumping into his veins every single time he hit flesh, pink flesh that tasted so good, felt so right.

He stood, bracing himself against the sink, gasping as he struggled to grasp this reality, his real reality. The emotion felt so raw, so untouched, he felt himself almost give in, almost give up, against civilization. He forced his shock of red hair under the faucet, gritting his teeth as the icy rush of water slammed him back into his corporal body. His entire being ached to feel what he had felt on the island; the therapist had warned him so. And yet, he had almost lost. Lost against himself, for himself. All because of a simple letter that had carried more than words. It meant reliving his past, a past he was ashamed to call his own. But he knew, deep inside his cold, brittle heart, he welcomed it. Hunted it.

He shut off the faucet, completely numb. He could feel nothing, even as he heard a baby's cry through his apartment walls. He felt his legs give out from beneath him as he slid down, to the floor he dared call his. He refused to process a single thought; for that would require thinking. And Jack Merridew was done thinking for himself.

He drew up his knees, curling into a ball, even as the cry became a wail, piercing his very being. But I have no being, he thought numbly, for I am a savage. Icy drops of water mingled with salt tears as Jack Merridew, once head of the choir, once head of the Hunters, cried for reasons unbeknownst.

Day of the Service

The blonde haired man fiddled with his tie as he stood, his head ducked, making sure not to catch his own eye in the mirror. He wore the proper grieving clothes; a black suit with a red tie. He refused to acknowledge the fact that, an hour from now he would soon be surrounded by, no doubt, the very beings that had made his life Hell, attending a funeral for a man he wished he had never met, ever.

Ralph was still skinny, still struggling with the memories he had fought hard against to overcome. If you asked him to bare his back, you would find scars of all sizes, discolored skin from his torment on the Island. His wrists were peppered with self-inflicted cuts, from his adolescence days as the full realization of his experience became real; when it would not fade with the bruises. He knew, as soon as he had stepped off the boat that had rescued him from a cruel death, that his days as anything close to normal were over.

Still, the arrival of the letter had caused him to almost completely breakdown, if not for the advice the doctor had given him. Reading the paragraph, and the message it relayed, was a bittersweet moment for the British man. Bitter, that Roger, his old tormentor who had never left, who had caused him pain in his nightmares, died from a disease. Pitiful, Ralph had thought. Why hadn't he been murdered? Kidnapped, suffering the pain he had unleashed, tenfold? The fact that he had gotten off so easily made him regret losing touch with his fellow islanders. But sweet, knowing that the world was rid of one more bad guy, one more villain gone. He knew he had nothing left to fear, yet it would not stop the constant nightmarish dreams. Nothing would. Because it was his reality.

Now, he laced his hands together and clenched, willing the simmering anger away, taking steady breaths. He stood straight and faced himself straight on, nodding in approval. He looked strong, accomplished. But even he couldn't hold his own gaze, burdened with the knowledge of knowing, hollow without the slightest compassion.

"The first steps are always the hardest," he told himself as he crossed his threshold, shutting his apartment door firmly behind him, willing to lock his demons away behind him as well.

The gloomy England sky was indifferent, dark and cloudy as per usual. The blackened clouds released a light drizzle, becoming a steady pit-pat as the clouds let loose their version of tears.

The blonde man walked forward with intent, striding his way to where a small crowd was gathered. He gripped his umbrella tightly as his steps faltered, muttering curses to himself for being weak. He locked his gaze on the pastor, who was speaking, his voice a murmur against the steady rain.

He couldn't help but note the figures he recognized on sight, even spotting a bored looking hawkish man, with a beaked nose, gazing at the pastor with clear boredom, whom he guessed to be the attorney. He had prepared himself mentally, had practiced his words for each of them. But as his eyes slid over them, he couldn't help but nod in acknowledgement at the boys that had held on to their sanity long enough to become men. Percival Wemys Madison shot him a tentative smile; Bill returned his nod, and Robert, who had experienced the savagery of them all, shot Ralph a look of reproach fullness, before turning his gaze on the pastor.

Ralph even spotted a coated figure with a shock of red hair glance his way, but he refused to acknowledge him. He felt his body tense, muscles coiling instinctively at the very thought of Jack Merridew standing so close. But he forced his body to relax, ignoring the angry clench of his burdened heart, his gaze straight ahead as the pastor spoke of Roger, a man in drabs who knew nothing of his true nature, had never witnessed the palpable viciousness that they all had, as a great man, a great husband and loving father.

Ralph, in response to these titles, studied the crowd of fifteen until he spotted the weeping woman clutching a small boy who could have been Roger at his younger age, staring blankly at the gravestone. Despite her cries that crested to wails, Ralph steeled his guarded heart against the sadness as the preacher's words slid over him.

"Roger Wilson was a man of many regrets," he spoke. Regrets? Ralph thought bitterly, regrets that he hadn't finished me off? That I'm standing here while he's buried six feet under?

"Even with a thriving and prosperous future, he would not relent his burdens he carried on his shoulders." Him, with burdens? Ralph thought, finding the idea hysterical. A man who had never apologized is the one with the burdens?

"We are all gathered here, to not only bid farewell to this fine gentlemen, but also, to forgive his sins, for he is gone from this world to live with the Lord. His final request was to beg forgiveness from his fellow castaways. May he rest in peace, now and forever." I shan't ever forgive his godforsaken sin, or rotten soul, Ralph thought with harsh finality, feeling simply empty.

It was silent, all except the steady rainfall and sobs of a widow who Ralph had no intentions of meeting. The men shuffled forward without a word, placing a flower or two upon the gravestone. Ralph buried his hand in his coat pockets, watching with a tilted head as he watched a few of them mutter last words, the awkwardness building. A few left after approaching Roger's final resting place, leaving a handful of people.

Ralph approached the gravestone, not bothering to read the engraved words, knowing that they would never be true, knew they were lies.

"So here, with no one to contradict or argue, you oh so beg for my forgiveness, Roger?" Ralph spoke, his words hollow, his narrow gaze on the ground. "I bet you expect everyone to say yes. I bet you expected everyone to make such a commotion. I bet your own family doesn't even know the truth of your nature, Roger. But I do. I know that up until now, when you stepped off the boat, making empty promises, that you lived a lie. Because evil cannot be denied." Ralph took something out of his pocket, alarming the onlookers who listened to his words over the thunder and lightning. But he opened his fist, revealing a small pair of wired, round glasses, one of the lens smashed, the other still intact. There was a sharp intake of breath behind him as Ralph's voice was barely above a whisper.

"You did this to him, Roger," Ralph spoke. "He did nothing but try to help us survive, and you killed him. And yet, you ask for forgiveness? Ask us to forget my dear friend, the only friend I had, and forgive you for killing him? Like the very savage you are!" His voice rose to match the roaring thunder, his face flushed.

"Do not forgive," Ralph whispered, placing the broken, useless glasses on the patch of cement, "because I shall not forget. And neither should you." He didn't wish to part with the glasses; they were the only physical proof that Piggy ever existed. And yet, it felt right, to leave it to haunt the very man who had killed him.

Ralph stood, straightening his clothes before striding the way he had come, feeling empowered. He had finally stood up for himself, had finally spoken his mind against his demon. Only to face another.

"Ralph" a voice called. Ralph halted, his body rigid, recognizing the voice behind him. "Ralph," it repeated. Still, the fair headed man refused to turn around. The voice that haunted his dreams, had shuddered him from nightmares with its viciousness so clear, he shot up, hidden dagger in his hand, ready to slice at his neck.

"Goddamn it Ralph, look at me." The figure stepped into his path. And Ralph felt suddenly drained, suddenly powerless. No matter what he did, he could not escape him. Jack Merridew, with his fierce leer that was so familiar, so real, that Ralph recoiled, back peddling. After years of avoiding this man, years of torturous nightmares, he came face to face with him. He had the unexplainable urge to run, get away quick before it was too late, before he would be staked, too, like the pig head.

"Those things you said, to a dead man, Ralph," Jack spoke, sounding disgusted. "You have no right being here." Even after all these years, Ralph thought sourly, Jack Merridew still thinks he's some kind of leader.

"You're right. That's why I'm leaving." Ralph moved to go around the man, but Jack stepped back into his path.

"I'm sorry," Jack blurted. "It's just… those glasses. I didn't know you still kept them. I thought they had gotten lost…" he trailed off.

"What, like the rest of the evidence?" Ralph snapped. "He may be dead, but don't think all of him died on that island. Either of them," he added.

Jack sighed, dragging a hand through his curls, avoiding the gazes of the rest of the familiar figures. "I'm sorry, Ralph. Being here, seeing all of you again… it threw me off. Roger's sudden death made me realize that life is short, and you never know when you'll see someone again. So I'm here to apologize for… for what I did to you, to them, Pi—"

"Don't," Ralph hissed uncharacteristically. "Don't you dare say his name. Don't think it, don't whisper it, don't utter a syllable on that filthy tongue of yours. You're a savage, Jack Merridew. I hope you rot in Hell alongside Roger."

"Ralph," Jack said weakly, shocked at his spiteful words. "I've repaid my sins. I have a family now," he insisted. "I've made amends, I attend church. I've made up for my mistakes. I've reached a level of acceptance. Please, Ralph, just forgive—"

"No," Ralph said flatly, all prior emotion wiped from his features. "Forgiveness is too sweet for the likes of you. What you did, Merridew…" Ralph sucked in a shaky breath, looking away from the human-who-was-not, in front of him. "Do not forgive, do not forget," he whispered, just loud enough and full with venom, to strike the red head bitterly. With that, Ralph turned on his heels, leaving a sorrow-filled Jack to be pelted with rain drops, the rain coming down harder as it splattered him, unforgiving, the sheets leaving him invisible in his own world.

Jack's body shuddered with body racking sobs. "I'm sorry," he whispered to no one. "I'm sorry."