A/N: This belongs to William Golding, because as a writer, he might have shaped my GCSEs. Also, Blame my kinda sick side for thinking Roger would be sexy. (If he was both Legal and not demented.) This totally came about because I've got a ticket to see the Regent's Park Open Air production a-Monday, and… well, yeah. Roger's sexy.

.

.

.

.

24 hours.

He lifted his hand, stared at it, then turned it over and considered the colour under his nails. He used to bite them, he remembered, when he heard the bombs dropping overhead and his mother disappeared outside to try and help his father down to the shelter.

Father.

He wouldn't know if they were dead. If everyone was dead... how could he know? And he hardly knew where he was, just on this boat. This big, silvery-metal boat that was cold on his bare feet - for they hadn't any shoes - and his bare, scratched hands and he wanted back on the island.

Home.

He wasn't sure where home was. Whether it was back in London in the small house he lived in with his parents - probably gone by now, let's be honest - or on the Island, he wanted to get there, find his routine once again, and maybe try to forget what he had done. Lifting his hand again, he took in the cracks of his broken fingernails and wondered, even in his own head, if it was just his fault. Or if someone else had been there too, helping him out. No, not helping, making him worse than he already was.

Please.

He wanted another shower. He hadn't felt clean since getting on the boat - but he hadn't felt clean in however long they'd been on the Island, either. They'd left him, Ralph, Jack and a few of the littluns on the beach until last - they'd left him til last, again, just like they'd left him to be the last boy to get on the plane, the last little boy - though he was sixteen, and so one of the oldest, surely. None of that counted when they were waiting for a boat. None of it.

Please.

"Can I use the showers again, sir?" He looked up at the man who was watching over him. There were four of them in this room, Jack, Maurice, Ralph and himself, all of them supposed to be eating food in the mess-hall, or whatever it was called, but... Roger just wasn't hungry. He didn't need to eat. Not then. Probably not ever - it was quite a thing, really, that they hadn't descended into cannibalism... but, then again, Jack had suggested killing littluns more than once.

Sick bastard.

Sick, ill, wrong, disgusting. He was sure he would hear the story more than once, and he would be called those things more than once. But he had nothing to retaliate with. He was all of those things, and more, and the worst thing was, he wondered whether the desire to kill - to sharpen a stick at both ends, just like Jack had ordered... would ever go away.

"C-can I?" he repeated after a half-minute of silence. He hadn't heard his voice breaking through the silence in such a long time - usually he was cutting across Jack or Ralph or that damned Pigg- either way, it shocked him. How his voice cracked halfway through a word, and how he didn't remember himself sounding like this before.

"I suppose." His guardian sighed, "You know where you're going." Roger simply nodded and went to gather his wash things, his thoughts back on the island, where washing was simpler than soap. It was running into the sea naked and coming back ten minutes later with your hair making your eyes sting because of the salt and the length of it dripping into your eyes.

"Yes, sir." He disappeared down the corridor and tried to steady his feet as the ship lurched on the waves. Falling to the side, clinging onto the handrail and muttering profanities under his breath, Roger carried on until he was stood in the shower room and could finally disrobe, hurl himself under the hot water spray and try to get the feeling of discomfort out of his skin. Ten minutes later, he felt as though he had rubbed his shoulders raw. His lips were curved back in a grimace of pain, and he dreaded reaching for a towel to pat his body dry. Half of him hoped that there would be blood on the fabric. He wanted it gone. All of it... and he wanted the proof that it was no longer there.

Instead, he was disappointed, standing to look in the full length mirror and realising he had done nothing but aggravate the sunburn on his shoulders by peeling the layers of skin away. Irritated by that fact, he shouldered the towel, wincing, and licked his lips, feeling the cracks in his skin as he sighed and pulled the soft clothes back on. Even they felt alien to him, clothes which were cleaned, ironed and starched ready for him in the morning. They gave them all to him - to all of them, and even then some of it didn't fit.

Alien.

Silently, he stepped back into the quarters they were sharing, and sat down on his bed, staring at his hands once more. After the fourth shower, he had finally felt... well, clean enough. He still felt a little ill, hungry now, more than anything, but he didn't want to turn up for food, have to walk in on his own like he had before. He would go to breakfast tomorrow, be friendly then, try to garner some... companionship.

He had longed for it on the Island, a friend, maybe from another school, because in the other half of the plane, all of his friends were gone. Not that he had that many in the first place, but that was beside the point. He was lonely again, now, because all of the boys were trailing back into the room and not looking at him. Didn't matter, he supposed, as long as he still had Jack. Smiling slightly, though it was obviously forced, he looked up at his friend. Immediately, the redhead looked away.

Even Jack looked at him like he was afraid.

.

.

.

.

Opinions?