Mellow
A/N: I'm in the midst of writing a handful of Ralph/Jack fan-fictions, but decided to take a small break when this idea came from literally nowhere this morning. I tried to be a little original, because I'm aware these kinds of fan-fictions can get a little samey, but this is how I felt chapter thirteen, or an epilogue, would have played out. I don't think I've read any where Ralph has turned out this way, but I've only been part of this fandom for the best part of two weeks, and am slowly making my way through the seven-hundred fan-fictions here, and the very few I found over at Livejournal. Anyway, please enjoy. Flame if you must, but I'm already aware that my writing isn't that great, and I'm a far more convincing Ralph/Jack fangirl. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: "Lord of the Flies" belongs to William Golding, and I have no witty response to make the fact I'm using his characters OK.
Surprisingly, nobody welcomed the new-found maturity and unashamed change in Ralph.
During Latin or Mathematics he would sit, tucked away in the corner of the room, peering at the teachers as they passed, scrutinizing them for fault. The adults wondered, apprehensively, how on Earth the intimidating, dubious gaze of a twelve-year-old boy could remind them so vividly of their own school days, under the solemn gaze of the schoolmaster. Unaware of their one, most human, most devastating flaw, they would send him out of the classroom for the smallest offences so they could teach in peace. It wasn't long before "horror stories" began to circulate in the staffroom – after all, it wasn't rare for another teacher to pass the fair-haired boy, stood alone in the corridor, shifting his weight as his mouth curved into an anxious frown. The teacher would eye him curiously, wondering what exactly this pleasant looking boy had done wrong, to receive a gaze from under a waterfall of blonde hair. Some swore it was a small, self-satisfied smirk.
They found his parents insightful, and agreeable people – the kind that said hello to you on the street, rather than the vicious, calculating kind who would turn their son into a cynic. They appeared ill at ease whenever they were around him, throwing a cautious glance in his direction every few seconds. While Ralph was focused, they were distracted – the turning of their head almost like clockwork. Once or twice, they did it at exactly the same time, and would have been perceived as funny had the atmosphere not become so morose with Ralph's presence.
The eeriest part of all, was that they could never quite be sure what he was thinking – what he was planning. There were days when he would go missing for hours on end. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, try as they might, his parents could not track him down, and would sit quivering together in the family room, where the only light emitted from a lone, frail candle, flickering and casting the shadows of ethereal creatures across the room. Eventually the door would swing open, coupled with a sound that gave the impression that something heavy had come crashing into the cottage door, and the sheepish boy would come clambering in, soaked to the bone, offering no excuses. When they yelled, he did not respond. Ralph questioned almost everything they said, and openly doubted them. They'd been somewhere? If there wasn't detail and evidence, his paranoia would come creeping in, and the uncertainty would become alarm. When his thirteenth birthday came around, his parents desperately hoped he wouldn't ask them what they were planning – nothing but the truth would suffice for him.
Days out were rare – usually once a week the content family of three would head out to the park, clutching a picnic basket. Other children would glare at Ralph enviously as he performed a flawless headstand, wrestled with his broad-shouldered father and huddled up to his gentle, affectionate mother. More recently they had shied away from the dark aura he emitted, while he would pick at his food, less self-conscious than Ralph should have been. His mother swore she heard him utter "like a pack of kids" under his breath as some went careening down a hill, and that was the final straw for her.
They sent him away for a few weeks, to his zero-tolerance aunt, who rather than tenderly reminding him to use the cutlery next to his plate when he ate pork, would slap him across the face. He didn't cry though, and retired to his room without food, hating the taste of pork, anyway.
"Mellow" was the closest he got to "happy". And those times were fleeting – the walk to school, the sight of a church, a smooth, pink shell in the window of a local shop, the heat radiating of a mug of cocoa – and then his face would twist and distort, becoming the face of someone in excruciating pain. He didn't show up to school, he kicked the brick wall of the church, punched the glass, much to the distress of the shop-owner, and abruptly plunged his hand into the scalding liquid. His distress was evidence – Ralph would shake uncontrollably, kick whatever came near him, and repeat a single name disdainfully over and over again: Jack Merridew. Jack Merridew! The same name carved into his desk, scrawled over the walls, scratched into his skin… His parents eventually concluded that there was no one who could help the boy with the frenzied eyes but Jack Merridew, however Ralph would fall silent whenever he was questioned about the older boy. Did you meet on the island? Did he go to your school or the other school? Ralph…?
He knew – and he didn't know how, he just did – that the connection he held with Jack had not, and would not fade it time. An errand, curiosity, or the strong desire Ralph had only briefly experienced… in his eyes, it was inevitable. He wanted to keep the hate fresh in his mind, but from time to time, something would remind him of the older boy, and he would grin slightly, flushed by a sense of adventure – remembering their first visit to Castle Rock, their exploration of the febrile island, how they bickered over the most trivial things. But each memory was tainted by another – Simon or Piggy – usually the latter - and he would be blinded by fury. Jack Merridew! That sick, twisted, malevolent bastard! Before he knew it, people were restraining him – someone crying, begging him not to hurt himself. His hand would hurt, or his foot, and for some reason, this was all incredibly amusing to him. Of course, had no one come to rescue the boys, his head would be on a stick in that paradisiacal horror house.
He didn't want to forget that name. Not for a second. Because Ralph would meet Jack Merridew, again. He didn't doubt that for a second.