A/N: I just finished reading Lord of the Flies as one of my summer reading books...and wow, am I glad I read it!


He was still on the island.

No matter what he did, no matter how many times he blinked his eyes, he couldn't transport himself anywhere else; he could not escape from that horrid place.

"We'll have fun here!" Jack's ecstatic voice echoed in his ears all the time.

Some fun, he thought bitterly, some fun all right. That's what it had been…fun. A load of bloody fun. Ralph shook his head of fair hair. He couldn't comprehend the meaning of the word fun. To him, the word was evil; to him, the word held a negative connotation.

He was thirteen years old now. He was supposed to still be a kid, supposed to have no worries and no responsibilities. But the island had robbed him of that. As far as he was concerned, the island had murdered him, for the boy he was now was nowhere near the same boy he had once been.

"Hide…I should…I should hide, right? Or better to run?" he murmured to himself, completely unaware of his surroundings.

A woman stood before him, one with long, fair hair and a light complexion. She reached out to touch the troubled boy, but he shoved her away. He scurried backwards on his bed, grabbed one of the blankets, and threw it over his head and body.

"Ralph, honey, where are you?" the woman asked kindly.

Ralph remained silent. There was no point in speaking--she knew by now that wherever he was, so was the island. It followed him like a little lost puppy dog, except for the fact that it didn't share the puppy's innocent personality.

"Ralphie…sweetie, this is home. You're not on the island anymore; you're safe."

It didn't matter how often she said it, or how kindly she spoke it. Nothing mattered anymore. Ralph couldn't escape; he was trapped, forever, until the day what was remaining of him died. He would die on that terrible island just like his good friend Simon and his true friend Piggy. After all, if their lives didn't extend beyond the island, why should his?

"Ralph," the woman pressed on, "You're safe. Do you understand me? You're home and you're safe. You're not on that island anymore, and you're never going back to it."

But it was easy for her to say. She hadn't been there; she hadn't seen the things he had, witnessed the horrors, been a part of the murder of poor Simon…

"Oh, Simon!" he cried out, and he was sobbing like mad, shaking like a leaf.

The woman slid the covers down from her son and reached out a hand to wipe the tears away, but again he denied her the contact. She bit her lip, and pulled back her hand, embarrassed and confused. She didn't understand.

"It's in there, it's in you, too!" Ralph shouted, and her mouth just fell open.

She didn't know that he was talking about the Beast; he didn't that the Beast could no longer harm him for the time being.

It was a lost situation.