I just finished LOTF today, and I really liked the ending, despite how Deus Ex Machina the arrival of the ship was at the precise time Ralph was going to be killed (and despite how Golding killed Piggy AND Simon.) Sigh. Well, the story was satisfying, but I decided that Ralph didn't feel bad enough as it was and decided to attempt an angst one-shot. I've seen a few like these, although most of them have been about Jack (one of my least favorite characters in the novel.) I guess I got a sudden inspiration attack from reading all of them.
Disclaimer: I do not own LOTF, but you all know that.
Ralph was quiet after the rescue. He didn't talk, except when he had to which was usually when an officer asked him something or other. Even then, his responses consisted of as few words as possible. He avoided the boys most of the time, keeping to his room and keeping to himself. Even after they'd been shaved, pruned, and would've made their mothers proud, Ralph couldn't quite think of anyone of them as human.
A few times, he'd encountered one of them. Samneric had attempted to make conversation with him, and Bill and Maurice had given a few solemn nods in the hallways. There'd also been that incident where he'd come face to face with Roger. For a fleeting second, Ralph had been transported to a world where he'd been facing a boy terrible and horrible, naked (except for the dirt and war paint) and carrying a stick with both ends sharpened. A quick intake of breath, and the moment had passed, and Ralph was instead looking at the cautious, enigmatic boy with the military style haircut and too-big clothes. Roger had looked at him with a rather closed, decided expression that seemed without remorse, and Ralph couldn't help but thank his lucky stars the navy had arrived when they did.
There'd been a few times he'd narrowly avoided Jack. The boy had attempted to talk to him, and even went as far as to plead to him from outside the thick, metal wall of his cabin. Perhaps he had wanted to apology, perhaps he'd wanted to curse Ralph's very name; maybe he just wanted help with his explanation to the officers. Ralph would never know, as he hadn't answered, despite Jack's calls for a truce (something that came too late.) All he could think of was Simon's blood spilling out onto the sand, a rusty-haired, green and brown savage standing over him, and all he could see was the smashed skull of Piggy, his body lying broken on the rocks.
Their deaths had been quite hard to explain. The adults had known something was up from the beginning, and as the days passed, the boys found themselves in the presence of the Captain and First Mate. Ralph wasn't exempt from this; in fact, he was interrogated the hardest and longest as the self-proclaimed leader.
He could still recall the Captain, red-faced, asking him again just how three English boys had died over the course of their stay. He'd been completely honest in his story about the boy with the mulberry-colored birthmark; their first attempt to make a fire had burned down part of the island, the littlun had wandered off into the trees. But apparently, his account of Simon and Piggy's death had not matched the stories the other boys had spun.
"I don't see why you damn kids can't be bloody honest!"
That was because he hadn't been there. The Captain hadn't heard the screams from Simon as he had been torn open by a pack of savages; the Captain hadn't seen Piggy's head shattering the same way an ordinary dish would. He hadn't lived on that island.
The island. Ralph found himself shuddering at the mere thought. He still looked over his shoulder whenever he ventured from his room into the hallway, half-expecting a beast to rise out of the dark. He could still feel the sand beneath his toes and the warm lagoon water enveloping his body. And he could still smell the blood.
The one time Ralph had been in a tolerable mood happened to be the worst day of the voyage. It was stormy, and lightning and thunder flashed and waves rocked the boat till he was queasy, and Ralph couldn't help but remember the flashing spears and the figure of a boy crawling out from the forest during a time not long ago. In a blind panic he'd curled up onto his bed and covered his ears with his hands until the storm had stopped and all the memories were behind him.
That had also been the one night when he'd been forced to eat, and he remembered the complete and utter silence as he sat down at one of the long tables to do so. He could still feel their gazes on his back; gazes full of pity and regret, gazes that pleaded for forgiveness that he could not, nor would ever, truly give. The worst had been the accusing glances shot to him by the eldest of the biguns, almost as if they blamed him for their problems. He couldn't really bring anything up, not while the ever-watchful gazes of the adults seemed to linger. So he'd forced himself to stomach his food as well as he could, and continue this existance, despite the memories.
And so he isolated himself from the savages pretending to be boys, willing to forget.