Roger had trouble forgetting things. And trouble realizing things until it was too late. Maybe that's how things were with Simon.
Maybe he didn't realize that he was killing the boy until he was drifting away in the ocean and had innocent blood on his hands. Because he knew that Simon wasn't a beast. He was. Roger was.
And Simon was an angel… in both senses of the word now.
And now, Roger did know that it was wrong, but he was torn.
Torn between the gap that Simon's death had left, and the pure ecstasy of killing him. He liked that feeling. It was the years of bullying others heightened and saturated into a single second when he knew Simon was dead.
When he knew it was because of him, and because of his hands, his power. It was beautiful, and wonderful, and terrifying. Later, he had felt horrible, because Simon was gone. He wanted him back.
Simon was his. How could anyone take him away from him?
No one else seemed to realize it was Simon who they had killed, and they didn't feel bad about it at all. Roger did, but at the same time he loved it. No one told him he couldn't do it, so why not do it?
He killed Piggy too, and ran the tribe as Jack's right-hand man. Administering torture, scaring everyone into submission. That was what he was good at. And for a bit, he forgot about Simon.
Well, not completely.
Simon appeared to him in sunsets and moonflowers and gentle touches and a dark fringe of hair.
But that was all, because Simon was good and everything left on the island was dirty and evil. The sow's head and the evil that accompanied it had pervaded through every part of the island and none of the savages had taken any notice.
Until the ship came.
Everyone seemed to notice then.
Ralph was crying; Jack was crying; the twins were crying; everyone was crying. But Roger wasn't crying. Ralph explained how two were dead and the officer asked what happened to them.
Roger stepped forward, and with a little, proud smile, he said, "I killed them."
It didn't go over so well when they got home and they sent him away.
He hated it there, but he still had an escape in dreams. Dreams of running through the forest and hunting. Every night, Simon was there, waiting for him.
And Simon told him what he had done.
He had killed Simon.
And he remembered so vividly. Remembered the fire and the shadows and screams, begging them to stop, just stop.
And Roger no longer felt powerful.
He felt weak.
So weak.