Note: This fiction is just my little muse which eventually evolved into a story. In no way should you take it into serious consideration of how I violated, destroyed, or completely ignored any symbols or themes in the original piece of writing. And the 'Naval Officer' doesn't come to save the boys. He never comes.
Something for the Pain
-The Cry Falls Short-
(This beginning part is taken directly from the book. Scroll down if you want to find my shit without reading Golding's)
"You two aren't painted. How can you—? If it were light—"
If it were light shame would burn them at admitting these things. But the night was dark. Eric took up; and then the twins started their antiphonal speech.
"You got to go because it's not safe—"
"—they made us. They hurt us—"
"Who? Jack?"
"Oh no—"
They bent to him and lowered their voices.
"Push off, Ralph—"
"—it's a tribe—"
"—they made us—"
"—we couldn't help it—"
When Ralph spoke again his voice was low, and seemed breathless.
"What have I done? I liked him—and I wanted us to be rescued—"
Again the stars spilled about the sky. Eric shook his head, earnestly.
"Listen, Ralph. Never mind what's sense. That's gone—"
"Never mind about the chief—"
"—you got to go for your own good."
"The chief and Roger—"
"—yes, Roger—"
"They hate you Ralph. They're going to do you."
"They're going to hunt you tomorrow."
"But why?"
"I dunno. And Ralph, Jack, the chief, says it'll be dangerous—"
"—and we've got to be careful and throw our spears like at a pig."
"We're going to spread out in a line across the island—"
"—we're going forward from this end—"
"—until we find you."
"We've got to give signals like this."
Eric raised his head and achieved a faint ululation by beating on his open mouth. Then he glanced behind him nervously.
"Like that—"
"—only louder, of course."
"But I've done nothing," whispered Ralph, urgently. "I only wanted to keep up a fire!"
He paused for a moment, thinking miserably of the morrow. A matter of overwhelming importance occurred of him.
"What are you—?"
He could not bring himself to be specific at first; but then fear and loneliness goaded him.
"When they find me, what are they going to do?"
The twins were silent. Beneath him, the death rock flowered again.
"What are they—oh God! I'm hungry—"
The towering rock seemed to sway under him.
"Well—what—?"
The twins answered hid question indirectly.
"You got to go now, Ralph."
"For your own good."
"Keep away. As far as you can."
"Won't you come with me? Three of us—we'd stand a chance."
After a moment's silence, Sam spoke in a strangled voice.
"You don't know Roger. He's a terror."
"And the chief—they're both—"
"—terrors—"
"—only Roger—"
Both boys froze. Someone was climbing towards them from the tribe.
"He's coming to see if we're keeping watch. Quick, Ralph!"
As he prepared to let himself down the cliff, Ralph snatched at the last possible advantage to be wrung out of this meeting.
"I'll lie up close; in that thicket down there," he whispered, "so keep them away from it. They'll never think to look so close—"
The footsteps were still some distance away.
"Sam—I'm going to be all right, aren't I?"
The twins were silent again.
"Here!" said Sam suddenly. "Take this—"
Ralph felt a chunk of meat pushed against him and grabbed it.
"But what are you going to do when you catch me?"
Silence above. He sounded silly to himself. He lowered himself down the rock.
"What are you going to do—?"
From the top of the towering rock came the incomprehensible reply.
"Roger sharpened a stick at both ends."
Now here's the obvious transition between Golding's work to mine
Roger... the name... the face.... a stick?
Ralph remembered that mocking sneer when he had done in Piggy. That damn boulder— when had that been? Today, yesterday, a week ago?
Hunched over between the itching reeds, Ralph found he couldn't remember.
He snorted with disgust at himself. Couldn't remember—was that the way to live? They had already forgotten life before the island. Mere imagery and sensations. There was no life but the island.
Ralph wouldn't—or couldn't—forget it though. He was the one who held on to the belief of rescue. He was the one who had to keep the dream alive. No one else was going to—
—and really, who was this Jack? Who was he to come about in his tide of murder and destruction? He was the one who had tainted the island. It could have worked, Ralph knew it, the plan, the mock civilization. The Beast wouldn't have come if not for Jack. Hell, Jack was the beast.
A tyrant.
That was why they were on the island. Their country had been fighting a war against a dictator. Irony was it for them to have crash-landed here to find another.
Jack's ruthlessness was killing them all, one-by-one. That littleun', Simon, Piggy, probably him next—
—but why did it have to be him, Ralph, next? Was it because he was good? He saw behind Jack's performance. Jack was the evil force come to take over the island. He was trying to eradicate 'good' out of that perfect once-standing civilization.
Spreading his taint to the rest of them all—they were all evil now. Ralph was the only one left. He was the only one of them who was good.
He didn't have to die. It was them. They needed to be gone. They were the ones being influenced by Jack, by the Beast, by evil. Roger, Bill, Robert, the littleuns'. Even Samneric.
All of them.
Why did Roger have a stick?
"Evil shouldn't live." Ralph whispered to himself. "Not when there's good."
And it really shouldn't. At one time, Ralph could have been friends with Jack, but now, no more. Jack was setting up a hunt. Jack was trying to kill him.
"Friends don't kill friends." Ralph said out-loud to no one but the trees.
Piggy, Simon. They had been his friends. They were dead.
Sharpen a stick?
Jack, Roger, everyone else. They were his enemies. They were still alive. How was this right? It wasn't.
Something had to be done.
Looking at his surroundings, he knew it wouldn't work. Ralph had told Samneric where he was going to be. They were probably squealing there guts out to Jack right now.
Squealing. Piggy.
He should have stood up for the guy. That name was not well-earned. Ralph was the one who did everything for himself. He refused to stand up for the poor kid. Ralph was the Pig.
But if he was the pig did that make Jack the hunter?
No, never. Jack. Evil.
Standing up, Ralph calculated his options. He couldn't stay here in the thicket. He probably couldn't stay anywhere on the island. He wouldn't be safe anywhere. They would hunt him down—no. There was one place; one place on the entire hellish island where not one of Jack's twisted hunters would set foot. And Ralph didn't blame them.
Why would someone sharpen a stick at both ends?
Ralph was slowly heading inland. If he were to keep walking, he would eventually reach the Mountain, but that was not where he was heading. He was going to the Beast.
He didn't believe there to be an actual Beast, but the way the littleuns talked about it and even how Jack seemed avoid the subject. It was more of a fear that had been slowly transcribed into him from the others.
Following a beaten path, Ralph pursued something that Simon had probably walked every day. "I never did understand that kid," Ralph said, softly. "But that didn't mean he had to die." Finally, he reached his destination; a cave,
leading downwards into the earth.
It would be his new home. During the day, he would sleep, strengthen himself up, do anything to get him an advantage over Jack. During the night, he would emerge. Get food, supplies, and wreck havoc.
Jack had taken everything from him, but he wasn't going to take his life. Ralph was going to combat evil; he was going to bring back good to the island.
Even if it meant destroying Jack and the tribe.
A stick?
Kind of cruppy ending but... Anyone want me to continue?