CHAPTER EIGHT DECIMAL FIVE

Gift for the Darkness: Self-Bestowal

Jack stared hard at a spot beyond the foliage, the horizon of the forest, until his vision began to blur. He sat with his legs folded over rich mulch, as if he were once again before a schoolmaster. Once his eyes refocused, he sighted a small pig in front of him. To Jack, the animal's entire being unified into one indiscernible point, and again he lost himself. You couldn't make chief if you tried, it seemed to say nonchalantly, and the white noise of the tide was ceaseless to its blunt demeanor. Time stood still as he held its gaze, but another voice intruded that silenced all the others.

'Just kill it'.

The resonance was a breath and the once still, damp air released a gust of wind that pushed him forward.

'Unless…you really aren't fit to lead?'

Its question buzzed like a saw in his head and Jack flushed hotly.

He glanced at the pig amidst this, and it winked back at him with a wry smile. The sun's phosphorescence was blinding and iridescent, yet all Jack could see was his own stark madness. His fists clenched tightly and he felt the familiar wooden splints of a spear he had forged. Blood coursed through his veins and they pulsed rapidly; the sweat attempted to mask it but couldn't.

'Kill it.'

The voice spoke with such dominion over the forest that even its dimly appreciated places didn't dare echo in the parody of laughter.

A shrill cry pierced the clouds that hung on the island. Jack continued breathing detachedly, his pupils dilated and examined the blood that painted his hands and the strewn flesh. He walked in a quaint daze and stumbled so that he kneeled in front a stream. A flash of a sow's head on a stick flitted before him. The apparition met his eyes in the water and at his ancient inescapable recognition it grinned and said, 'I'm not the only Beast'.

The Lord of the Flies had disappeared, leaving Jack to see what the Devil really appeared to be.