Author's Note: this was a school assignment years ago that I fixed up some. Hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters
Hog's Head
I staggered, as though already drunk, into a corner pub. My blonde hair was salt stiffened and my tee-shirt and khaki slacks were greyed. Plopping down, my legs weren't exactly steady on land, onto a barstool. I just sat there staring at the wall thinking about the events of the last week. My boat had been pulled off course by a storm, I had been thrown overboard by said storm, and had seen the burnt remains of a yet unmapped and unnamed island.
"You gonna order, Mate?" asked the bartender, drying his hands on a rag.
"Ahh... Small beer, I guess." As I sipped a man came in, sitting on the stool, leaving one between us. His face was covered in ash, that paired with his red hair gave the impression that his head was on fire.
"Gim'me a pint," he told the bartender. The bartender returned with the mug and tossed the man a wet rag. The man wiped his face, revealing pale skin with innumerable freckles. Something about him seemed familiar to me. He took up his mug. Looking up at the sign above him he smiled and before drinking toasted the sign. My previously nonexistent curiosity about him was growing. I looked up at the sign to find the name of the pub, "The Hog's Head". An image formed in my mind's eye of a sun-bleached pig's skull on a stick. It had been nearly twenty years since I'd left that island- no, exactly twenty years today. Why had the man toasted the sign? Something was most definitely off about this day. Drawing myself out of the thoughtful daze I took another sip of my beer. My attention, now away from the sign, returned to the man one seat from me. He wore a fluorescent coat, giving his profession away as a fireman. "Hey," he said spotting me looking at him.
"Hi."
"The name's Merridew," he said reaching out his hand for a shake. No, it couldn't be. Surely, Merridew was a common enough surname.
"Harvey," I said looking into his eyes, hoping to find proof denying my suspicions. I took the outstretched hand. Merridew wasn't a common name, and the man's face and hair were simply too similar not to be him. Yet my mind couldn't compare this pale, ash-smudged man to the little boy so tan his freckles were invisible, who wore the remains of a black choir cap and carried a pointy stick. Was I indeed sitting in a pub with the person who'd tried to kill me, who'd had a stick sharpened at both ends ready for my head? "Merridew, Jack Merridew." I stated, it wasn't a question. He turned toward me. Obviously he still didn't like being called by his first name.
"You!" his teeth were gritted as he said it. He must have come to the same conclusion about me as I had about him. I had no doubt he wanted to punch me. In fact, he did. A stabbing pain hit my gut and I was thrown off my seat. Lying on my back, I saw him standing over me, a fire of hatred burned in his eyes. Suddenly, I was again the scared little boy running from a mob led by the man before me. I stood up, feeling anger boiling, and my fist met his gut. I was right-hooked in return, and once again I found myself on the ground. The fight quickly turned into more of a boxing match, to the great entertainment of the on looking patrons. I was backed into a corner. My mind was struggling between fear and rage. My lip was bleeding and I could feel my left eye becoming black and blue. Jack grabbed the front of my shirt and pushed me against the wall. For a moment I imagined I saw a mask of paint covering his face.
"Kill the pig, slit 'er throat," I taunted him, weighing the dangers of doing so. He raised his free hand in a fist, his face getting steadily redder. I knew one well placed blow could kill me stone dead. "Fine, kill me, tear me apart like Simon, crush me flat like Piggy!" He lowered his raised fist and relinquished the front of my shirt. I walked calmly past him. I made it halfway towards the door. Suddenly, I was pushed into a booth table on which a small floating candle was lit. It bounced onto the seat and rolled, leaving a trail of flame on the velvet cushion. The fire grew quickly, fueled by the residue of spilt alcohol and fed by the numerous flammable objects. I watched as flame overcame the bar and the sign, already charred, fell into the fire below. All the customers as well as the bartender had left the pub, leaving only Jack and myself separated by a wall of fire. I saw a tongue lick his pant leg and leap upward. He screamed my name, begging me to help him as he was engulfed in flames. His agonized screams drove me running out of the collapsing building.
After I'd run three miles on pure terrified adrenaline, I stopped on a street corner. I didn't know why I ran, or perhaps I did. After all the recent events recalling me to the horror of my childhood, the scene of fire and Jack standing in the midst of it, suffering the fate I might have met at the age twelve, had frightened me. Two little boys around 11 and 10 walked by me, and they looked at me curiously, then continued walking. One, the older of the two, was pudgy and wore glasses. The other was thin, and when he looked at me I saw he had one of those all-knowing looks that gave you the feeling he knew everything about you. I couldn't help but think of Piggy and Simon.