HI!

I read the Lord of the Flies for my English class.

In case you're wondering, I won't make another Lord of the Flies story.

I woke up screaming at three o'clock in the morning. Eyes glazed with fear, I shot out of bed and tumbled with the blanket tangled around my legs to the floor. Sticky sweat drenched my hair and ran like a waterfall down my face. Dilated pupils, struggling to gain their bearings, swept hastily across the room. I calmed down a bit after slowly recognizing my small, neat room consisting of a bed, a nightstand, a desk, and a closet.

Bare feet stumbled out the door and into the bathroom. My nightmare was still fresh in my mind. I still remembered Simon's screaming corpse and Piggy's cracked glasses. My hand automatically wrapped around the sink handle, and cold water gushed out of the faucet. Water pooled in the center of my hands before frantically splashing onto my face, trying to erase the memories that would never disappear.

Pretty soon, I was just a wet, sobbing mess at the sink. My eyes tiredly drifted towards the mirror, and I froze. My hand slowly traced my features in the reflection. My once sunny hair was now a dull, sickly yellow. Large shadows outlined the bottom of my eyes. Across my face, the skin was stretched like an extremely pale, rubber band.

Is this what I really look like? Is this reflection really me? I thought while barking a humorless laugh and trying to put a positive spin on the situation. I look terrible.

"Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood," a familiar voice whispered. The voice sounded familiar even though it had a demonic tone. "Kill the beast."

"Hello?" I called, looking around. However, no one was in the bathroom besides myself.

"Cut his throat"

"Who's there?" I managed to squeak and turned around.

The voice spoke again, but it didn't answer my question, "Spill his blood."

That was when it hit me. I knew the owner of this voice. "J-Jack?" I stuttered.

"Kill the beast." This time, the voice was behind me.

I yelped, turned around, and was face to face with Jack's face in the mirror. His face was painted in shades of green and brown, and his hair color had turned bloody red. His eyes glowed neon blue with large pupils.

"Cut his throat." Then all of a sudden, Jack vanished from the mirror and appeared right next to me. Both of his coarse hands held a spear impure with dripping red blood. He walked closer to me. When my back was pressed up against the wooden door, he raised his spear and said three words: "Spill his blood."

I wanted to run away but my body wouldn't respond to the commands my brain was shouting. Helplessly, I watched his spear shoot down towards my heart. But just before it made contact with my chest, Jack totally disappeared.

Sliding down to the tiled floor, my arms wrapped around my head, and my mouth gasped for oxygen. Jack wasn't really there. None of it was real, I thought.

"My name is Ralph. I'm twelve years old. I'm sane. I'm not crazy," I whispered, repeating what I always said to my psychiatrist as if the words were a mantra. "My name is Ralph. I'm twelve years old. I'm sane. I'm not crazy."

I know it's not as good as my other stories but I would still really really appreciate it if you guys would review or give me constructive criticism.