Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Lord of the Flies characters. Others are mine but Roger and the other boys belong solely to their author, William Golding.
Who Comes In the NightHe sat at the end of the long table, looking down at the large women and bobby on the other side. Along the table sat the other boys with their parents. Jack, Ralph, Percival Wemys Madison and some others. His own parents sat on either side of him, not touching him, not looking at him. The large women opened her mouth and repeated her question.
"I asked you a question, young men. Who killed my nephew?" Her voice wavered a bit and she clutched tightly on a handkerchief. The bobby beside her stared down the table with flashing black eyes under large bushy eyebrows.
"Well?" The man said. "Answer the question."
He watched as everyone fidgeted in their seats. Jack looked down at his hands. Ralph looked like he was about to cry. Samneric looked everywhere but at the bobby. They were wearing matching bandages on their arms and he knew across their back as well. He smiled slightly to himself as he remembered their screams as the stake raked across their backs.
"Sam and Eric Henderson, who gave you those wounds?"
The twins gave each other identical looks of terror. One opened his mouth then closed it. The other opened his mouth then closed it.
"We just—"
"—the forest—"
"—scraped up."
They nodded at each other than glanced at him. He just raised a dark eyebrow at them. They flushed and turned back to the bobby. Unfortunately for him the bobby noticed the exchange. The tall man straightened slowly and glared right at him.
"Roger Collins. Do you have anything to do with the wounds on the twins and the death of Theodore 'Piggy' Johnson?"
Roger looked back at the bobby. A slow smile crept across his dark tanned face. "His name was Theodore?" He smirked.
"Just answer the question Mr. Collins."
Roger lifted his chin defiantly. "Yes."
The group gasped in unison. The boys seemed surprised he would admit to his crimes. His parents exchanged a look. He crossed his arms.
"Piggy was annoying. The twins were our prisoners." He shrugged, a smirk hovering over his lips.
His parents glared at each other.
"Listen to this. Your son has become a cracked murderer. That comes from your side of the family."
"My side? Your side was the one connected to the mafia all those years ago."
"Well, I should have known he would come to this." Roger's mother looked at the bobby. "He's always been a problem child. He was caught throwing rocks at a small child by the bobbies."
The twins exchanged a glance. They then realized that the rocks they saw flying past them that day on the ledge were from Roger. Little Henry did not connect his experience with Roger's rocks with what was going on. He was in his mother's lap and sucking his thumb.
The bobby walked around the table to where Roger sat. Lifting the boy up by his elbow the tall man slapped a pair of handcuffs around his dark wrists. He looked over at his parents, wondering vaguely what they would do. When they did nothing he let the bobby take him away.
"Roger Collins, you are under arrest for the murder of Theodore 'Piggy' Johnson and assault and battery on Sam and Eric Henderson. You have the right to remain silent—"
The man went on but Roger did not listen. He saw the wide eyes of the twins and grinned wickedly. As he passed he moved so he bumped against their wounded backs. They yelped in pain simultaneously. Roger's grin grew until he was laughing. The other boys shivered as the evil-sounding laughter faded away with its source as the boy was led away by the bobby.
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Roger sat silently in the cell. Piggy's aunt and the twin's parents had pressed charges and the judge had found him guilty. He had been given the life sentence considering his age and the condition he had been in on the island. He had pleaded insanity and the judge agreed. He was now in a mental facility in a room with padded walls. As soon as he got there he had sat on the bed and stared at the wall. He participated in all the physical education that was required but while he was inside he remained quiet and unresponsive. The other patients ignored him, the workers ignored him and the guards rode him off as batty in the head and made jokes at his expense.
But Roger did not seem to care. Some people thought he did not need to be in the hospital. He seemed normal enough, quiet but normal. What they did not know was how he acted at night. That was when they came.
At first he thought they were just dreams but they looked so real. They stood at his bedside and just stared at him. They were always covered in blood. The fat one came more often than the small one. He would stand there and look at him through broken glasses. Roger always tried to ignore them but they kept coming. Finally Roger called out to them.
"What do you want?" He shouted in the darkness.
The figures wavered a bit before speaking in chorus. "You killed us."
Roger shifted uncomfortably. "So what?" He pointed at the smaller one. "You were killed by all the boys." He pointed at the fat one and wavered a bit. "You-you were-you where—" He could not think of an excuse.
The fat figure just stared at him. The smaller one stepped towards him. Roger scooted back until his back was pressed against the padded walls. The small one kept coming. He was marked all over his skinny body in scratches made by human nails and blood ran from where the boys had bit him. His eyes were wide and vacant. His coarse black hair hung over his eyebrows. He held out a pale hand to touch Roger in that soft way he used to touch Ralph. Roger shrank away and the figure stopped, hesitating a bit before retreating back to the fat figure.
"Why don't you leave me alone? You're dead. You're both dead!" Roger's eyes were wide with horror.
The two apparitions glanced at each other than seemed to flicker. Soon they were gone. Roger breathed easier but his eyes would not close. He spent the rest of the night trembling in the corner.
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They came in the night, always the night. Other patients started complaining about the screams they kept hearing coming from Patient 481's room. Roger's room. The guards had checked on him several times but all they saw was the boy huddled against the far wall or on his bed. They couldn't see anything attacking him so they decided to move him to a sound proof room. They gave him medication to help his sleep but then he had nightmares. They came in his dreams and tormented his mind. He ended up screaming anyway.
One night, when they came, Roger repeated his previous question.
"What do you want of me?" He yelled.
"We want you to feel guilty for what you did. We want you to repent."
"Why should I?" He tried to sound brave but failed miserably. "What'll you do if I don't?"
The phantoms did not answer but disappeared.
The next night no one came. Roger supposed he had scared them off and started to feel smug about it. Before he could for long however, the small figure appeared. It was just him this time and that did not frighten Roger as much as both of them did. He looked normal as he did before that fateful night. No blood, no bruises, just a skinny, small figure. The figure did not speak right at first but instead sat at the foot of the stark white cot Roger was reclining on. Roger watched him warily but saw to reason to scream, not just yet.
After a while the figure spoke.
"It wasn't your fault really. I shouldn't have run in like that. You were all confused. 'Course, that doesn't make what you did right. I just want you to know that I forgive you."
Roger gaped at the figure. "You-you what?" His voice was low and hoarse.
The figure turned to look at him, his eyes bright. "I forgive you. I forgive all of you."
Roger could not think of anything to say. He was dumbfounded. None of his victims had ever forgiven him before. They all hated him and he liked it that way. It kept him an outcast. It kept him from feeling.
"Why would you do that?" He asked finally. "How could you forgive us after what we did to you?"
The slight figure tilted his head, appearing to consider the question seriously. "I don't know. I suppose because I have to, but I guess I also want to. I don't like grudges."
Roger was lost for an answer. He could not look at the small figure in front of him. He lowered his head and picked savagely at the blanket he was under. He imagined it was an animal and derived some pleasure from visualizing it in pain. But that pleasure did not last long with the figure from his troubled past sitting at his feet.
"But I'm afraid that Piggy doesn't feel the same. You're going to have to talk to him."
Roger looked up sharply. "What? I can't talk to him. He hates me!" And I want to keep it that way.
The figure shook his head slowly. "No . . . I don't think he hates you. He just wants you to sweat a bit. You didn't seem very upset when he died."
"When I killed him you mean." Roger pointed out.
The figured nodded sheepishly. "Well, yeah. You don't have any regrets about that?"
Roger looked back at the blanket. He started picking again. His short jerking movements took his mind away from the question. If he was honest with himself he had to admit that he was afraid. He was afraid of facing Piggy, the boy he killed. The boy he had wanted to kill. He closed his eyes but had to open them again as his mind was filled with images of Piggy's limp form covered with blood.
The small figure on his bed looked at him sympathetically. "Don't worry. He can't hurt you. Just listen to him. Maybe you'll feel something you've never felt before. Maybe you'll change."
Roger looked at him doubtfully. He was going to say something but abruptly the figure stood and started disappearing. Roger suddenly felt a sense of panic and reached out for the fading phantom.
"No, wait! Simon!"
But the figure was gone.
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Roger waited anxiously for Piggy to appear. He had bitten his fingernails to the quick and the guards, while glad he had stopped screaming, thought he might be going into depression. He was not depressed; he was terrified. His mind went over all the terrible things he did to the twins and he felt some strange sensation deep within him. He tried to feel the gratification he was used to but it refused to come. Instead he felt a bit sick. What was this . . . guilt? Roger shook his head hastily. No it could not be guilt. It must be something else. Maybe he was coming down with something. Yeah, that was it. He felt his forehead. He was sweating pretty badly. Yeah, he was just coming down with something.
He tried to convince himself of that but deep down he knew he was just kidding himself. Something was happening to him. Something he did not like. He shivered involuntarily. His swarthy skin looked pale and he wiped sweat that had gathered on his upper lip. He heard a slight noise and jumped, stuffing his fingers in his mouth to keep from screaming. He bit down so hard blood filled his mouth. He withdrew his fingers and blinked at his torn knuckles. The blood filled his vision and the image Piggy's limp body lying on the rocks flitted across his mind. He shook his head to clear it and licked the blood off his fingers. His knuckles stung slightly and he watched as the blood welled up again. He sighed and pushed the call button for the nurse.
A rather large woman appeared soon after and bandaged his hand. She clucked softly like a mother hen and tried to mollycoddle him but Roger remained unresponsive. She saw that he had bitten his fingers and asked why but the dark boy did not answer. After a few more tries the nurse left. Roger looked down at his hand and touched the white strips of cloth lightly. The pain from his wound temporarily lessened the pain growing in his chest and he preferred it.
The next day, after the pain from his fingers had subsided, he bit his other hand, this time on purpose. He watched the blood run down his arm, relishing the pain that kept his mind off of everything else. After a while he pushed the call button. As soon as the nurse saw what he had done she bandaged that hand up and told the guards to keep an eye on him.
The next day he bit his foot. It was as if he could not help himself. He had to have some pain to concentrate on that would silence the strange feeling he got when he thought of the twins or Simon. Or Piggy. When the guards saw this next wound they ordered him tied down to his bed so that he could not move.
After he bit his tongue until it bled, they ordered a guard to watch him at all times. The large man sat in a chair in a corner across from his bed and stared at him. Sometimes he would leave and another guard would come in. At first Roger wondered if he could escape in that three-minute interval between when the first guard left and the second guard came arrived. But he realized that would be impossible unless he found someway to break the cords that tied him to the bed.
A few days of this torture and the fat figure arrived. He looked how he did before the fall. No blood, no brains spilling out, but broken glasses perched on the bridge of his snub nose. Roger could do nothing but stare at him. He wanted to get away; he wanted to shout at the guard but did not know what he could say. So he just stared at the fat figure and the fat figure stared right back at him.
"Simon told me you would come." Roger whispered. He knew that sounded stupid and did not really mean much but he could not think of anything else to say. He looked over at the guard who was looking at him suspiciously. He looked back at the fat figure. The fat figure looked back at him.
For a long time they stayed like that. Staring at each other, almost daring the other to blink first. Finally Roger could not keep the phantom's gaze. He turned his face away. The figure cleared his throat.
"I came to talk to you." The fat figure said.
Roger kept his face away. "I don't want to talk with you. Go away."
The guard stood. "Who are you talking to Patient 481?"
Roger did not answer.
The figure stepped closer to him. "Simon says I should forgive you but I don't want to. Not until you feel sorry for what you did to me."
Roger kept his face away. "Why should I feel sorry?" He murmured. "You were getting on everyone's nerves. Everyone hated you. Nobody cared when you were gone."
The figure looked angry for a moment. "Ralph cared!" He shouted. Then he took a deep breath and calmed down. "Look, just think about what you did. Don't try to make the feelings you get go away by hurting yourself. Think about what you did. Remember it. Remember it well."
The fat figure took a step back then vanished. Roger breathed a sigh of relief and the guard sat down again. He did not see any more figures that night.
0000000
"Patient 481? You have some visitors."
Roger looked up from his where he was sitting on the floor in the middle of the cell. The figures had not visited him in a little under a week and he had stopped trying to hurt himself. He found it too much of a hassle. Sure he enjoyed the sight of the blood and the pain took away his worries, but then he had to put up with the mollycoddling nurse and the guards watching him day and night. The bed was getting awfully uncomfortable too.
Roger almost fell over in surprise when he saw who his visitors were. He tried to keep his face impassive for their benefit but could not help his mouth from dropping a bit.
Samneric stood in the doorway. They shifted their feet nervously, looking everywhere except at him. A woman behind them pushed them forward again and they stepped forward simultaneously.
"We just—"
"—talk to you—"
"—what happened—"
"—the island."
Roger watched them warily as they shuffled their feet against the floor, watching their shoes as if the design fascinated them. Roger waited for them to say more but they did not. Watching him from under dark eyelashes, the twins just stood there.
"Well?" He asked after a while.
Samneric jumped slightly.
"Er, we want to tell you—"
"—we forgive you."
They nodded to each other than looked at Roger hesitantly, wondering what he would do. By the looks of astonishment on their faces, it seemed they were not expecting the other boy's reaction.
Roger's face had turned deathly pale. His dark eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. He did not speak for a long time. When he did, his voice was hoarse.
"No, you can't."
Samneric looked confused. "Why—"
"—can't we?"
Roger was shaking his head so hard his hair swung like a pendulum in a dark clock.
"No, you can't. You have to hate me."
Samneric looked even more confused.
"We don't—"
"—used to—"
"—not anymore."
Roger shook his head harder and brought his knees up to his chest. Rocking back and forth he continued to shake his head. It was all wrong. They could not forgive him. They needed to hate him. Knowing someone hated him gave him the excuse to hate them back. Gave him the excuse to hurt them. They could not forgive him.
"Hate me. Hate me. You have to hate me."
The twins exchanged a look. The befuddlement was slowly fading away and being replaced with pity. Roger noticed and his rocking became more frantic. They could not pity him either. They had to hate him. He needed to be stopped from feeling things he had pushed out of himself a long time ago. Being hated was the only way. Hate was the thing that held off love and kindness. He had to hate. They had to give him a reason to hate them. But that reason was slipping away.
"No. No. No. No." And endless stream of "nos" issued from Roger's stiff lips. The twins started to back out of the door.
"Sorry you feel like that—"
"—but we do forgive you."
"Yeah, it's the right—"
"—thing to do."
"Bye Roger." They said in unison and then they were gone.
Roger continued to rock. His head did not stop shaking, even after Samneric had been gone for long while. The nurse came in to try to calm him down but he pushed her savagely away. She had to get two guards to help her put him onto his cot for he kicked and squirmed in their grasp.
"No! They have to hate me! You have to hate me!" He burst into angry tears. The first tears he had cried since he was a very young boy growing up in an uncaring, abusive home. He knew he was not loved by his family, which made it easier to hate. But now that Simon and the twins were forgiving him, he found that hate slipping away and he tried to catch it with all his might. He could feel his heart softening and it hurt like a foot stinging after it has been asleep for a long time.
Once he was laid on his cot he curled himself into a ball and held himself tightly, crying hard. After he had started it seemed hard to stop. All the anger, hurt and heartache he had been storing up inside of himself for all these years finally overflowed in pain-racking sobs. The nurse frowned slightly, afraid something was wrong with the boy. She placed her hand on his back and he let it stay there. He did not stop though and after a while the nurse was afraid he was going to make himself sick. She stood quietly and left to get him a drink of water.
Roger continued to cry. Soon after the nurse left, the fat figure appeared. Piggy appeared. He stood there for a while, just staring at Roger. Roger knew he was there and cried harder.
"I'm sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry!" Roger cried out. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks in streams but his voice steadied as he spoke. "I'm sorry for what I did to Simon, to the twins and to you. I thought I didn't need to be but then Simon forgave me and then Samneric forgave me. What am I supposed to do now? I can't hate someone who doesn't hate me. What would that do? I've spent so much of my life holding all this hate inside, I got used to it. I became my hate. And now . . . now I've killed someone. Two if you count Simon. And I liked it. Oh god, I liked it. I enjoyed torturing Samneric. I relished in their spilt blood and faces twisted in pain. What kind of sick person gets pleasure from that?"
Piggy remained silent, staring at him through broken glasses, his face impassive. Roger sat up and looked at him, his eyes red from his tears.
"Why don't you say anything?" He asked a bit angrily. "You just stand there and stare at me. Say something!"
The fat phantom just blinked. "What do you want me to say?"
Roger frowned and scrubbed his tears away roughly, wiping his nose on his sleeve and sniffing a little. "I don't know." He said a little sullenly.
The fat—Piggy, walked forward and sat on the bed. On the same spot Simon had sat. Roger watched him but his eyes no longer held any scorn for the other boy. Instead his expression was something akin to remorseful or shame.
"I came here fully intending to tell you to forget forgiveness from me. I really believed you could never change." Piggy took a deep breath. "But I can see that I was wrong. And I'm glad to admit it." He gave Roger a shy smile. "I forgive you Roger. What you did was wrong and really, very wicked. But I forgive you."
For as long as he could remember, Roger had never really smiled. There was the occasional lift of the corners of his mouth, sure. But never the smile that came from a heart full of joy. Not a joke, not a baby, not a hug could make such a smile grace his face as the one he gave Piggy that night.
From that day forward, Roger Collins was a changed young man.
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After that night, Roger never saw Piggy or Simon again. He was moved out of the mental facility when the nurse noticed his changed state and declared him cured. He was put in a regular jail in a room set apart for him because of his age. During his time in jail he became better acquainted with Samneric and Ralph who came periodically to visit him. He never saw Jack though and after a few years had passed he found out that the former head chorister, who spoke so proudly of his C sharp range, had taken a gun to his head. He could not bear with what had happened on the island and had cracked.
Roger felt a pang of regret that he had never got a chance to talk to the boy. But he was comforted by the thought that Ralph had also forgiven him, although it took him longer than the others. Although it had been horrific at times, Roger was glad he had had the phantoms who came in the night.