||Lord of the Flies|| Chapter Thirteen: A Rescue and a Light
Every boy visible was gathered into the cruiser at the shore of the ocean. The deafening silence hung over them, only a few of Ralph's sobs were still heard, even after two hours have passed. He sat on a wooden seat at one end of the cruiser, the others opposite. Fearful eyes blinked, frantically glanced around for answers. None were spoken.
With grudging eyes, Jack glowered at Ralph. In reply he shuttered. In his mind he still knew that the red-headed devil wanted to kill him. Angry pale blue eyes etched into his mind; again he shuttered. He wished the boy would stop.
"Ralph."
The voice made him jump.
Samneric had slowly made their way toward the lonely boy, cautious of what Jack might do, of what the others might do.
"We didn't know what we were thinking –"
"We're sorry Ralph –"
"Yeah, very sorry, Ralph –"
"Forgive us, mate."
Soon the twins accompanied Ralph's sides, their blonde hair now brown with dirt and matted up. Cheeks were scraped and scabbed and bruised.
"Get back here." The order was strict, bitten out.
Samneric made not a move.
Jack grimaced, his cheeks flushed red. "I'm chief! No matter what the pig says or the man that got to him first! Get over here or kill him!"
Roger wanted to join in, standing from his seat, fists balled, face and body smeared with clay.
"Stop!" yelled Sam, embarrassment and fear flushing his face. "Jack, you aren't thinking well. You need rest."
"I'm chief! Call me chief!" Jack shouted. "Don't you order me around, you listen to me!"
The littluns were whimpering, frightened once more. Silence then filled the room, yet, tension fogged the atmosphere. Roger sat again with his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand, while Jack had to avert his eyes, fury still rushing in his blood.
"We're safe now, that's all that matters." Ralph weakly declared. The littluns quieted. There was a small window beside Ralph's head, which everyone watched. The sun soon set, vanishing over the horizon. The sky became as black as coal, along with the innards of the cruiser. More whimpering became audible in the suffocating darkness when the littluns slept. Still, they could not sleep easily, for the nightmares of the beastie loom over their thoughts. Ralph, too, was cursed with these nightmares, not of the beastie, but of the corpses at sea. He whimpered in his sleep, thrusting his arms and kicking his legs.
He murmured words and names. Samneric being one. But the ones that had everyone think were Simon and Piggy – being the more frequent word. The boys who were still conscious heard these words and had reality hit them, except for, as expected, Jack. Those words that were spoken were acknowledged, taken into their brains deeply, gnawing at the unkempt thoughts, and realized, they were made forever haunted.
The boys startled as they woke, most of them forgetting where they were, even Ralph. The ship had stalled and a horn echoed deeply through the thin air. They screamed, not hearing such a thing for so long.
"Where are we?"
"We stopped."
"Is there food here?"
"What's the time?"
"It's too dark to see."
A door from Ralph's side of the cruiser opened. "Well lads, we've hit shore. Time to go down to the station."
Terror paralyzed the boys. What would happen to them when the officers found out that they murdered not one, but two boys? Two of their own kind? What if they're arrested? They sat, staring at the man in the doorway.
"Why to the station?" Ralph asked, his throat dry.
"All we will do is ask a few questions. Maybe get you some clothes and have you – wash up."
The boys agreed to follow the officer, hesitantly rising from their seats. The morning sun blinded them from being in such a dark area for hours. The breeze gently rolled over their cheeks; all of them shivered, forgetting the weather of England and forgetting their clothing as well. They walked past the docks and to the station, which was not so far. It was a small, contained building made from blocks of eroding cement. The roof was a slab of asphalt. Inside the floors were scuffed and pale, the walls sickly looking. Men in uniform stood at the walls, conversing. To the right was a room lined with chairs and a single table in the middle, which the boys were led into. They took their seats.
A man walked into the room, sat at the table with a notebook, and puffed at a cigar. The tag on his thick windbreaker read: Gen. Walter Evans. "One of you step up." he said, voice strict and husky.
A red head stood, hesitated, then walked, sitting in front of the General.
"Your name?"
"Chief."
A few murmurs hummed in the air, then silenced as Walter frowned. "I have no patience for games at the moment. What is your name?"
"Chief!" Jack repeated louder, then averted his eyes.
"You aren't boss anymore, Jack." said Sam, putting a hand upon Ralph's shoulder.
Walter sat back in the corner of the room, watching, taking secretive notes.
Jack snapped his head around. "Says who?" he hissed. "I should have been humbly honored the title Chief from the start, then our problems would have been solved. We wouldn't have to deal with the outsiders that gradually ruined the island! We could have lived such a carefree life forever. We didn't need to be rescued – right Roger?"
The brunette narrowed his eyes at the others and nodded. "Yes, Chief."
"Stop that!" Sam yelled.
"Shut your mouth!"
"You can't tell me what to do either! Ralph was our chief and he still is!"
"Ralph –" Jack snarled, glaring at the fine haired boy. "is our pig. We must kill pigs to survive. Kill the pig!"
Immediately Roger pounced, his hands tight around Ralph's soft throat, fingers digging into his skin. He slammed the boy into the wall, pinning him there with a wicked smirk stitched into his face. The littluns screamed and Samneric tried to shove Roger away, pulling and pushing him, hoping it would change his target. He was much too strong. His goal was set, it could not be altered. Kill the pig, squeeze his throat, drink his blood, watch him die.
"Kill the pig! Kill the pig!" Jack chanted, his arms raised high.
A few littluns joined in with the chant, while others sobbed and cowered into a corner, arms around each other.
Roger dug his fingers into Ralph's throat, bruising the skin and tearing it slightly with his fingernails. Ralph's face was blood red, veins showing at his temples, trying to pump the blood. His breath shortened and his chest became tight. He screamed for help, which only weakened him greatly. The oxygen wasn't flowing. He became limp, his head started to fog, the pain burrowed deep in his chest. His head pounded and the noises slowly faded to mere whispers. His mouth hung open and his legs gave in under his weight. He could feel every pulse jolt throughout his body, then slow. Was it already the end, after all that they have been through? He gave a groan and a whimper, his head falling to the left. He saw Samneric screaming, shouting, crying. Eyes of hazel slowly closed, arms falling to his sides.
"Enough!" Walter grabbed the hair atop Roger's head and gave it a sharp pull.
He gave a cry as a reply, releasing Ralph as he fell to the floor, deeply gasping.
His eyes were wide, welled with tears. A wheezing was heard as he inhaled and exhaled. He dragged himself over to a chair, hoping it would block Roger's blows.
"Savages." Walter declared, taking a long puff of his cigar. "I've never seen such behavior, unless you count wild animals. This is a disgrace. And are you all not British? British boys should be prim and proper, not kill!" He took Roger by the arm, who hit him back. It didn't phase him. Then, he took Jack's arm and took the two boys away. They stared back at the littluns and the three oldest boys, wild glares paralyzing and tearing them mentally, as if hitting them straight on with an axe. The last thing Jack had mouthed was not safe.
"Ralph. Stand up. Come on –"
"Please, Ralph. Don't lie down there –"
"You have to get up. You have to take us back home –"
"Ralph? Answer us! Open your eyes again!"
"You idiot! Please! Answer!"
---
Ralph was taken to the nearest hospital. The muscles in his throat were torn and bruised badly from the force of Roger's hands. He blacked out from the pain, not being able to breathe all that well. He spent three weeks in a gurney, with Samneric by his side. Few of the boys were able to reunite with their families again, while others were sent to orphanages. The parents of Samneric agreed to adopt Ralph, since no records of guardians were found. He was prescribed heavy medication for the pain in his throat and he wasn't able to speak for a few days, for the vibrations may tear his throat again. Things were never the same for Ralph. He feared he would suffer the same fate as Simon or Piggy, thinking either Jack or Roger was out to get him. For years he suffered night terrors and heavy anxiety attacks, not being able to converse with strangers at school or with anyone around him. He also seems to forget that he is back in England. Sam and Eric are like brothers to him, he loved their attention
Jack was sent to an Open Unit Psychiatric Hospital, due to not being able to live in the real world without losing his mind. Whenever he saw a pig or heard the word mentioned, he would raise his arms, yell, attack whoever spoke of the creature. Physically, people were hurt, mentally, Jack was scarred and delusional. He would yell the name Ralph, walk and pace about his ''room'' and stare at the walls. Just stare and stare with wild eyes. "Ralph? Ralph! I told you!" He would yell at the same wall daily. Nurses would give him his medication without any problems. He was a nice boy, until he started to day dream again. Thinking about the island was not the smartest idea, but it was the only thing he could possibly think about. Day and night, he would pace his room, panic, run. He would hit walls, wanting to see what was outside. He hoped that Ralph was there, waiting.
Roger was not to be handled lightly. He was placed in Hanwell Asylum in West London. He was placed in a Crisis Stabilization unit at first, since he was so violent and harmful to other people around him. A twisted smile was always on his face. In the corner of his isolated and enclosed room, he sat, rocking back and forth, hugging his knees. A nurse would bring him his food, he would throw it or smack it down. "It's not pig!" he yelled.
"But it's ham. It is pig."
"Not my pig. Mine was better, tasted better, felt better. I enjoyed my pig, not this fake sustenance you call ham." Roger had to be restrained and sedated to take his medication. He refused at most times to take it, clawing at nurses and helpers. Soon, they had to move him to a Long-Term Care Facility, then confinement. He was placed into a padded, white room, free to move, since he did none of that from the beginning. He refused to eat; doctors had to force feed him. He talked to himself and kept the conversation flowing. No matter the subject, he talked and talked, snickering, giggling with that twisted, jagged smile. Sitting and staring at the floor with tears in his eyes, but that smile on his face. He became feeble and emaciated, pallid as well. He chewed his fingernails until they bled. He tore the clothes they gave him, hating them. And at rare occasions, he would cry in the midst of night, lying on the floor on his side. Maybe it was grief that hit him, agony, guilt, loneliness. One could never guess the right answer. On November 13th, 1948, he escaped his room and into a den where weapons were held. He first held the gun to the nurses, then to his own head. His last words: I refuse to battle, the damage has been dealt, the pig has won.