Flamma Fumo Est Proxima
It is quiet here; eerie quiet, like dead of night in the middle of the day, and bright. Stock white walls make corners with bleached floors, laced with sunlight from barred windows. The mirror makes it brighter; for this I am glad. The mirror, hanging silently on the wall, watching me. Always watching.
I don't like the quiet here. When there is silence, one is left to think; to reminisce; to be lost in reverie. I used to want things like that; time to think, silence, memories. Now I fear them. I fear them like I fear what lies beyond my door, on the outside, in the sunshine. The laughing children, so naïve. They dream of princes and frogs and kisses from queens while I; I sit here, dreaming truths. I watch the threads of evil disperse through my flesh like a disease; killing me from the inside out.
And all the while, the mirror is watching.
The mirror isn't evil. It watches me, but so do I. Of the corner of my eye, where the most subtle demons lurk, lives my image, reflected in the mirror. The mirror doesn't mind me, and therefore I return the gesture. It is only when the silence scares me do I make the mirror a part of my world. It becomes my confidant, listening as I open my mouth and the darkness spills, dripping like ink from my tongue.
"We didn't mean to," I say. "It wasn't us; we weren't ourselves." Even as I tell this to the mirror, I know it is a lie. I don't doubt the mirror knows it too. My words betray me and the silence isn't helped. It throbs in my ears like blood, taunting me, teasing. I want to scream, but my voice is lost.
Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood. The mirror mocks me.
"No," I reprimand. "I... We... It wasn't like that."
You danced, Ralph. Kill the beast. Simon cried and you danced. Spill his blood.
"But I didn't know," I'm whispering now, with my face pressed against the glass. I'm crying as well; I can't help it. Simon... "I didn't mean it. The darkness... it changed us."
No, Ralph. There is only darkness here. The island was free from the darkness. Simon knew. You danced, Ralph. Simon knew.
"You're right," I tell the mirror. It smiles toothily, glinting sunlight from the window. The window with black bars. "I know you're right; you always are."
Of course I am, Ralph. You knew that. You danced. You were never more yourself than when sitting on the beach, dancing 'round the fire. You danced, Ralph. Say it.
"I danced," I repeat for the mirror's pleasure, streaking the shine with fingerprints and tears.
Again, Ralph. You danced. You danced, and you liked it. You wanted to. Simon; spill his blood. Cut his throat.
"I danced."
You killed.
"No!" I shout, lashing out at the mirror. I didn't kill. I didn't kill Simon; I killed the beast. I danced, but I didn't kill. I fall backward and the mirror laughs. "No!" I repeat, covering my ears. It doesn't help. The mirror laughs, echoing the silence.
Yes, Ralph, yes. And Piggy. Have you forgotten about Piggy, Ralph? Piggy trusted you. You let him down, Ralph. You let him die. The mirror accuses and I bring my hand instinctively to the cord of conches around my neck, a gift from my mother upon my return. My mother, who stayed here in the darkness. The conches, a gift; a gift from the darkness. Piggy; Piggy had the conch.
"Stop it! I didn't know!" I beg, but the mirror laughs.
Oh, but you did, Ralph. You heard him speak, you knew the consequence. You saw it coming Ralph; you did nothing. You wanted it. Cut his throat, spill his blood.
I can't take it anymore. There is a bed, wedged into the corner of my white cube of silence. I press myself into the spot where the walls meet, away from everything but the quiet. The mirror can't see me here. Someone will come. Someone always comes when I hide. They always come to find me.
I hear them come before I see them. The bolts to the door unlock and the metal slab creeks as the outside rushes in. They are careless; they let it swing. The door bounces twice against the whitewashed wall and I feel the tremor approach. It snakes across the floor like water and creeps up my bedposts, wracking my body. I want to scream.
You heard the rock before you saw it, Ralph. You felt the jolt in the earth that came up from the soles of your feet; you heard the stones breaking on top of the cliff. You saw the blood-toned monster bound down the mountain... you moved, Ralph. You moved and let Piggy die.
"I didn't know," I say, my hand curled around the conches. They press into my skin. "I didn't know. A game, it was a game. Jack didn't play fair... Roger didn't play fair." I am trembling. Trembling like the earth just before Piggy died; like the fat on his bones. A shadow comes, looming over me. The rock, I know it is; the rock that killed Piggy, red with his blood. It speaks.
"I know, Ralph. I know; it's all right, you're safe now," the rock says, moving ever closer. I press myself into the corner, as I pressed myself to the ground. I let Piggy die.
"I let Piggy die," I say. The mirror hears me, but the rock hears me too.
"No, Ralph," it lies. "You haven't done anything. You have to calm down now, Ralph. Breathe deep."
"I didn't play the game," I tell the rock, my voice shaky and cheeks wet. I don't turn around; I can't face it. It killed Piggy. It killed my friend. I hold the conches. Piggy's conches. Piggy had the conch.
You wanted smoke, you wanted fire. 'Shut up, Piggy,' you said. 'No sundial. Fire.' The mirror chants. You danced, danced around the fire. The fire killed Simon. You wanted fire.
"Fire," I tell the rock, so that it will understand. "I wanted fire; smoke and fire."
"There's no fire here, Ralph," the rock tells me, rolling closer and on to the bed. "There's no smoke and no fire."
"Darkness," I say. "Just darkness."
"I don't know, Ralph," the rock says. It likes my name, it doesn't want me to forget. My name is Ralph. I wanted fire. "It seems rather bright to me. The sun is shining; where do you see darkness?"
There is darkness everywhere. The mirror answers for me. You can feel it, Ralph. In your skin, in your flesh. Simon knew, Piggy died. Fire, darkness, Ralph. Ralph.
"Everywhere," I tell the rock, in case it couldn't hear.
"Why don't you turn around and see?" the rock asks me and I feel it move closer. "It isn't so bad." I don't move. I can't; I'm hiding. "Ralph? Come now; you'll have to move out of there sometime. Ralph?" The rock moves closer. I see it approach me, from the corner of my eye. The red rock, the evil demon; the corner of my eye. I want to lash out. I want to scream. "Ralph?"
Go, Ralph. Piggy went, Ralph. Simon too. You let them die. The rock has come now. What will you do? Spill his blood, Ralph. Cut his throat. Tell me. Tell me, what will you do?
I bare my teeth. The rock. This is the rock's fault. I squeeze the conches. Piggy's conches. The rock killed Piggy.
"Kill," I say. I answer. The mirror asked me.
"What?" asks the rock, moving ever closer, closing in.
Yes, Ralph. That's it. Cut his throat. Kill the beast. Dance, Ralph. Spill his blood.
I move my second hand to the conches, snaked around my neck. Slowly, I take them off.
"Piggy," I say, but the rock doesn't understand. Piggy had the conch. Nobody listened. "Kill."
"Yes, Ralph," the rock says and I look up, at the place where the walls meet. Where the sand meets the shore. The rock surprises me; it agrees. I know now. "Piggy was killed, Ralph. You miss him; it's okay. You did nothing wrong." The rock agreed. Did it speak again? It agreed. The rock agreed.
I turn my head, slowly, and the rock moves from the corner of my eye. I clutch the conches; they pierce my hand.
Yes, Ralph. The mirror eggs. Kill the beast. The rock killed Piggy. You danced, Ralph. Dance again. Dance for Simon. Dance, Ralph.
I hold the conches slowly toward the rock, moving slightly back from my hiding place. I won't need it much longer. The rock is confused. It's wearing Piggy's glasses under his blood; his blood, like moss atop its crown.
"What's this, Ralph?" it asks me. I do not answer, the rock deserves silence. I have lived in silence. The rock deserves it.
Yes... The mirror hisses, its voice low as it watches, eyes shining. The sun is gone now; the black window bars have bled into the sky; black blood, like ink. The mirror reflects.
"Do you want me to have this?" the rock asks, staring at the conches. I don't know why it asks; it took the conch from Piggy. Piggy had the conch. It takes them from me. "This is yours, Ralph," it tells me, but I shake my head. The conch was Piggy's. Piggy had the conch. "Thank you, Ralph. It's lovely." The rock lifts the conches into the air and fits them around itself. I grin. "Will you come out now?" asks the rock and this time I comply. I have no use for hiding. I've been found.
I turn on the bed, toward the rock. It smiles at me and pushes up its glasses. Piggy's glasses. The mossy blood is dripping down the sides, just below its ears; Piggy's blood.
"That's my boy, Ralph. Would you like anything? How about cornflakes and cream? You mother says you love cornflakes and cream in the early evening. What do you say?"
The rock speaks. I do not hear. I can hear the mirror hiss, waiting for me to dance. To dance as I danced for Simon, this time for the rock. The rock that killed Piggy. The air is tense, but the rock doesn't know. It's waiting for me to make my move, though the darkness has blinded it to my meaning. For once, I like the darkness.
"Ralph?" it asks me, but I do not answer. Instead, I reach out; toward the rock, toward the conches. It smiles at me, lifting them in its fingers. "Yes, Ralph. Do you want them back now?" I shake my head. They are Piggy's conches. Piggy had the conch. The rock doesn't move. It grins at me; grins in the darkness. The rock is blind; rocks cannot see in the darkness.
I trail my fingers along the cord of shells, feeling them turn in my fingers. The rock knows nothing. It lets me. It sits. It waits, on my bed. The beast. It waited, on the mountain. Simon came for the beast. I will come for the rock.
I curl my fingers around the cord, running my thumb over the shells.
Almost. Dance, Ralph, now. The rock knows nothing. Dance, Ralph.
I pull. I pull with all my might. The rock is shocked; its eyes bulge and it scratches at the conches, pressed into its neck. I pull harder. My elbow digs into the rock, into its spine, into the flesh. The rock kicks out; it wheezes. The mirror laughs.
Yes, Ralph, yes! For Simon, for Piggy. Cut his throat, spill his blood!
The rock slides down, off my bed and onto the floor. It splutters and coughs, forever scratching at the conches. It wants them, it wants them for itself. No. Piggy had the conch.
I pull until the rock lies still, harmless on the floor; at the bottom of the mountain. Then, when I am sure it is safe, I let go. I let go for Piggy, for Simon. I let go.
I watch as a little trickle of scarlet blood slowly drips from the corner of the rock's mouth. Not Piggy's blood; not even Simon's. The rock bleeds, blinded by darkness.