Disclaimer-
William Golding owns Lord of the Flies.
Author's Note-
This little drabble is Jack!centric, takes place during Chapter 3; "Huts on the Beach". My English class, this book and I have a love/hate relationship. Mostly hate (because of annotating reasons, ugh), but this book is addicting and so far the ff stories in this fandom are pretty well-written, though I'm not quite sure yet about this whole . . . thing—maybe it'll grow on me? lol.
just a feeling
sometimes the hunters are the hunted. but there's nothing to it, of course; it's just a feeling—except when it isn't.
A forearm is slung over a pair of blue eyes that—in this frustration—are almost maddening underneath locks of hair, seductive bleached denim that takes in everything and gives away nothing. Oh, the goddamned pig: the promise of meat, of protein, of survival has long since run away from the tip of his sharpened blade hanging in the belt loop of his torn shorts hanging low from his hips.
(just couldn't find a spot . . . couldn'tcouldn'tcouldn't . . . Ralph said to cut them at the neck to drain the blood . . . next time!—)
His thoughts wrap themselves around his head in that order; cease the tight air compressed in his lungs and the stiffness in his fingers and toes until he is drowning in the rush of blood that pounds through his ears, floods his veins ice-blue and red-hot. Dizzy, everything spins when he blinks once, then twice: the forest floor beneath his bare feet, damp and as soft as clay; the creepers twisting around each other like some sick dance he doesn't know the steps to; and somewhere, the voices in the distance are screaming and crying and living, humming over the buzz of a fly's wings on his shoulder.
But there's nothing to it, of course; he tells himself, taking a cautious step back towards where he came from alongside the scar to stop the ache in his stomach that is growing and growing so it doesn't eat him alive from the inside out. It's just a feeling—
(just a feeling just a feeling just a feeling)
except when it isn't.