My first Lord Of The Flies fanfiction. I originally wrote it in Finnish and now decided to translate it.

I love Roger's character, he became my favorite when I read the book for the second time. I somehow always seem to like the sadistic characters.

There might be some mistakes, feel free to point them out. I hope you enjoy this~

I remember a trip that went terribly wrong. We ended up to a wrong place. First it was fun, for the most of us at least. Kids are blind.

For me, the fun started when everything went south, or so everyone else would say. Sweet little schoolboys turned into savages. Wrong. There were only two people on the island who knew the truth. One of the two died there. I survived.

We did not become animals. We had always been like that. The island merely allowed the beast inside us break its chains and roam free. It was such a sweet feeling. I wasn't chained anymore, I was free. Free to hurt.

If I had been home back then, I would've just got yelled at. Mother and father said I was not right. I wanted to hurt others, so apparently there had to be something wrong with me. But on that island no one could stop me. I could harm the weak as much as I pleased.

Eventually, we were found. I remember that moment well. All the other boys cried when they realized it: we were saved! I didn't cry, although it was a sad moment. It would mean that I would once again be chained to rules, laws and the other adult's stuff.

The trip back home was quiet. The little ones forgot quickly what happened. Some boys I knew a bit better were talking quietly, trying to get something else to think. The one I considered closest for me, that redhead I knew as a leader with a hunger for power and who could sing a C sharp, sat pretty close to me, his head hidden behind his knees and avoiding to look at anyone. It didn't fit him at all.

I was stared at for the whole time. Three pairs of eyes looking at me from the other side of the room. Eyes that were burning from hatred and accusations. Most of the eyes belonged to twin boys. Perfectly identical, inseparable. I had violated them both. I did not regret. The rest of the eyes were a blond boy's eyes. I hadn't even laid a finger on him, though I had wanted to. I remember how his lips formed: murderer. I turned my gaze away, keeping it that way for the rest of the trip.

Finally we had made it back to England and our parents - if we still had them - were already waiting for us, ready to take us back home. I was pulled up by a black-haired man I called my father. He spoke just as much as I did. It would be silent on our way home.

It turned out I wouldn't get to go back home right away. When my feet finally met the ground of the docks, I was approached by two men. Tall and stern. Police officers. They wanted to have a talk with me. I glanced past them and met familiar blond hair and the cold blue eyes staring at me underneath the bangs. I could imagine him saying it to these men.

"It was him. He's a killer."

I had killed, yes. I had killed a scrappy greaseball that from far hardly even managed to look like a human being. Greaseball with glasses, asthma and an irritating, squeaky voice. I had nothing to regret.

On the way to police station father dropped me a piece of information. Mother was gone. I didn't cry, neither did father.

"Roger Dessner."

A man said my name as I sat down opposite him. He was ugly. I didn't look at him, I kept my gaze at my hands. He spoke something about a name I had never heard before. He said I had killed him. I replied with silence. The man talked more. Names that sound familiar but I didn't know. Names of boys' who had been on the island with me. Boys I had hurt and who accused me. He spoke about raven-haired boy who died. His name I did recognize, but I still remained silent.

The man was losing his composure. He said a lot of things, things I had heard my mother saying a long time ago already. That there was something seriously wrong with me, that I wasn't normal, that it wasn't right to hurt others. He said I was sick, spitting the word out. That's not true, it made no sense, I wasn't in pain at all. I was not sick.

They said I got out easily, because I was still a child. I wasn't convicted of anything. I never again saw the blond boy, who had called me a murderer. I never saw the twins, whose screams of pain I remembered as oh-so sweet. I didn't care about the stares and weird looks that followed me at school. I ignored the words they shouted and whispered. Sadist, maniac, animal, savage. My life returned to normal.

Sometimes when I close my eyes I can see that island, which all the others who were there see as hell. For me it was like a dream come true. Place where I could hurt without society chaining my hand. On the island I had been free. Free to hurt, torture, kill, to spill blood.

Yes, it was a true paradise.