He blinked hard, phosphenes flitting from his field of vision like a swarm of flies as the vague shapes of colour and shadow materialized before his weary eyes. The narrow opening of the cave revealed the island's recuperating flora, regaining their greens and yellows through a constant baptism of rain and sun, innocent to the destruction that had transpired on this very island – and how he envied them for it. Those few months blurred together into an infinite nightmare for him, a cold hand constantly on his shoulder, a harsh whisper in his ear in the midst of night. For as long as he lived he would never shake off the ache that so tenderly gripped him, his heartbeat a constant testament to the suffering he was to endure. What good was survival when the guilt has eaten away too much for him to ever be whole again? To be dead, in the company of his friends and hopes and dreams must be a more pleasant alternative to – this, because with fear and abjection in such proximity, he simply could not imagine anything worse. From the expanse of darkness behind his back, he could feel the stare of several sets of unblinking eyes boring into his spine. You're too cowardly to even join us, he heard their high boyish voices, forever frozen in prepubescence, proclaim in unison words that chilled him to the bone. He bit down on his lower lip, the uniform lacerations making way for coppery beads of crimson to rivulet down his chin. When he first heard the unforgiving voices of Piggy and Simon he had cried. Folding to the floor in full hysteria, rocking back and forth as he sobbed his throat raw, all of it. But tears just weren't enough.
The passage of time eluded him here as it did everyone. He recalled that he would count the motion of the sun as it swept the skies with Piggy and the others who had hoped to leave as soon as possible, making faithful tallies in the bark of a gnarled tree that, in its great stature, seemed as old as the island itself. The day the island burned was the end of that particular endeavor, the tree consumed by the crackling flames to leave behind not even a charred stump, while the sky above was left a murky shade of grey from the cloying ash-filled fumes for several weeks, leaving one unable to determine whether it was night or day. That was when all hope was lost, he decided. The sensations felt fresh still, his limbs bound and his mouth choked with dirt and blood as his body hit the bloodstained earth, the sound of the burning jungle filling his ears, indistinguishable from the caustic laughter of the hunters. It must have been a beautiful sight to them – to him, really – to see the prey caught and broken at last, its fate balancing on his whim alone. And so this was Ralph's fate. He gazed absently into the dark chamber of the cave, an activity he took up to whittle down the long hours of the endless summer. The entire island seemed constantly suspended in the sweltering equatorial heat, and yet he had never felt warmth, only the stickiness of his perspiration clinging to his naked flesh. He gazed down at the sad pallor of his skin, all the more wan from the faded white lines that were recognized as scars from a distant yet proximal time, mourning the loss of his tan and all that it had embodied. In his present state, he was not allowed to go out. He always came to him.
Tandem footfalls and wild, excited shouts assailed his ears but he did not turn to look. The same event was gleefully repeated by its participants day after day, like a cruel, lackluster caricature of the mechanics of civilization; the chants hastened as the sliver of sky before him took on a familiar red, their hollers seeming to drive the sun back into the horizon. Darkness came just as the all-too-familiar scent of roasting meat and sooty wood was wafted into the cave by sultry breezes, and he silently counted to ten as the heavy yet languid footsteps approached, entering the cave right as he was done with the last number. He craned his neck slowly, the figure of Jack Merridew coming into view, a torch in one hand and a slab of flesh in the other. His eyes passed over Merridew's blood-splattered legs without focus, and rapidly watered as Merridew dropped the torch in the remains of a fire upon adding a few stray branches, despite knowing what to expect; he was always more accustomed to the darkness than to the light despite it being a constantly haunting presence. Knowing that light was temporary was necessary to him, so that he would not long for it when it was time to close his eyes once and for all. From Merridew's appearance he derived a vague sense of time, having watched him shed his child's body to attain a well-muscled vessel more compatible with his strenuous exploits of bloodshed, trading his C-sharp for resonant battlecries. The juvenile ugliness of his features was beginning to even out into a face that was perhaps somewhat easier to look upon, but it made little difference to him as his blood ran cold each time he met the cold china-blue eyes. Has it been a year, at least? Perhaps two, or more? He could give only the roughest of estimates. There was no point now, to count down the days until returning home like a hopeful schoolboy on a trip overseas, the boy he was supposed to be until the island swallowed them all up. He had forgotten what his own face looked like.
Merridew rose to his feet again, drawing back from the fire, this time maneuvering towards him. He came to a halt, his long shadow settling over Ralph's face. With considerable ease he cut a section of meat loose from what he had in his hand, letting it drop to the floor directly in front of where Ralph was seated. "For you," he said curtly, beginning to turn away but then stopping in his tracks. "There's always more." He added carefully, watching Ralph peripherally in avoidance of eye contact. Ralph reached out a hand slowly to grasp the meat, forcing it into his mouth. It must have been said to taunt him. He never needed more; there was little need for sustenance when his main task each day was to dwell silently in the cave, feeling sick to his stomach all the while as shame and loathing stirred within him like a stick sharpened at both ends. He swallowed and tasted nothing.
He gritted his teeth as Merridew sauntered away, settling in a mattress constructed from dried foliage in the heart of the cave, extending his limbs, a predatory animal readying itself for rest after a long day's hunt. Ralph bit hard at his own lip again; he could anticipate the next chain of events already. This was why he was being kept alive, after all. It must have pleased Jack Merridew, to continuously do away with his dignity until there would be nothing left at all. Anyone would have been pleased to have the opportunity to slowly bring down one's rival, until he becomes not his own person, but a mere extension of one's whim, trapped, dependent, never dead but always dying.
"Ralph. Come to me," he finally heard the call that he had been dreading, made all the more unbearable as it reverberated from the cave's expanse of walls. He surged to his feet mechanically, numbness weighing down his legs like a ball and chain. He found himself kneeling at Merridew's bedside, over the body that occupied the mattress. Remnants of paint based in clay and blood still clung to his abdomen and limbs, but Merridew's face was free of such contamination, a rare sight. An impatient hand shot out and seized Ralph's wrist, placing it precariously over the redhead's waist; with an almost inaudible sigh, Ralph took his free hand, using it to assist the other in peeling at the waistband of tattered shorts, revealing the pale skin that lay beneath as he heard Merridew's breath simultaneously quicken.