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Just finished the 1990's movie version of the book!

It really scared me…

But either way, please enjoy this next instalment!

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Jack grabbed the rough white handle of his fridge and practically torn the door open with a rush. He was on his knees immediately, rummaging through the transparent cabinets at the very bottom. He pushed aside two pears and reached right down to the last ripe and healthy apple, lost amongst the bags of oranges. Taking it out, and without washing it, Jack bit into the red skin, tearing it easily with his sharp teeth, and sucked in the wet juice inside. Turning, he kicked the door closed with his slipper-covered foot and leaned against the sink across from the fridge, smiling and enjoying the taste of his snack.

"Jack! Is that you, hunny?" he mom called from upstairs. Jack rolled his eyes.

Biting into his fruit again, he replied, "No, dear. It's me, Bryon. I decided to come home early because I care about you."

There was silence above. Then a small shuffling sound and a murmured "ok" before a door slammed and there was silence again. Jack rubbed his cheek and didn't grin at his little act. He was too angry with his mother. Looking down at the hardly eaten apple, Jack's mouth twisted and he abandoned the fruit, throwing it into the empty sink before picking up his school bag and heading upstairs.

Jack Merridew was a fortunate child, most said. He had a big house, a good education, close friends and loving parents. If you could call them that. He never said anything when people praised him. Because they were all morons, idiots who knew nothing about anything. Especially about him and how he felt. Whenever someone would pat his shoulder and exclaim about his lucky life, Jack had to bit down on the inside of his cheek to resist punching that someone right in the mouth. He could almost feel the cracking of a jaw and the shattering of teeth against his white knuckles. He knew violence. And then that someone would never speak to him again and he would be happy.

Jack threw his tattered bag to the ground inside his spacious bedroom and jumped onto his queen sized bed, the red satin rubbing against his tanned complexion in an uncomfortable way. He sighed and let his eyes flutter closed, basking in the quietness and his memories.

Unlike most of the guys he surrounded himself with, Jack recounted his time on the island almost everyday, going over what he remembered, how he felt and his relationship with each boy. With every memory he remembered, Jack felt more and more frozen, not with a sense of wrong-doing but a sense of detachment. Like he somehow had convinced himself that he was never apart of the island and what he did there didn't matter to anyone or anything.

Perhaps his sub-conscience side had blocked it out after he had returned. That's what Don, his therapist, had concluded. But Jack knew better. He knew that his 12 year old form had been blocking the sights and decisions he made every step of the way. Because he had been the Chief and the Chief had to be unreachable, physically, emotionally and mentally.

"Jack…" a soft hushed voice, sounded from his door. The red head's eyes slowly opened and he glared at nothing. "Jack, what would you like for dinner?"

"I don't care" he answered coldly. There was no answer from his mother. Jack chanced to look up and see if she was still there. She was.

Amelia Merridew was a skinny, short, woman with long chestnut coloured hair and big almond eyes. Her face was heart shaped and her complexion was pale but healthy. She had once worked as a successful real estate agent and traveled quite a bit which was the reason Jack had no real love for her, even till now. But after the island, she had quit her job and worked in smaller businesses in the UK only, convinced she had been at fault for what happened to Jack. Which was completely stupid.

She was now standing crookedly hidden in the shadows of the doorframe wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe and her eyes looked sadly but curiously at her son. Jack hated that look.

Amelia nodded, "I'll call you when it's done" she whispered and shut the door quietly. She had become quite a mute woman since Jack had been restored to her and she ceased to care about the creased lines betraying her real age.

If Jack had disliked his mother when she was uptight, unsmiling and cold, he quickly hated this softer and inaudible replacement.

But that didn't mean Jack took his father's side in things. Not at all. In fact, he butted out of any argument his parents got heated over and did whatever it took to avoid them. Because the number of disagreements between them increased from when he was 12 to now as a 17 year old. And he knew it was because of him which did not bother him.

Bryon Merridew was a tough no-nonsense business tycoon who took his job more seriously then his family. As far as Jack could remember, his dad was hardly ever home. He remembered when he was 5 that he didn't know at all what his dad looked like and that was because Bryon had never changed his routine of going to work before Jack woke up and returning after days at his job after Jack was asleep. Every single time. Jack had never thought about staying up late to wait for him.

After the island, his father made a little shift but that was it. Not as drastically as his mother. Bryon still went to work early then came late but he was come home more often then not, but it wasn't a big change. Jack had never blamed anyone for what he had become on the island, but if anyone had been a role model for the way he leaded, it was his father.

Jack didn't remember when he dozed off but the scent of roasted garlic bread brought him back to reality. And he had been having such a nice dream of hunting pigs across a furious landscape of trees and rocks.

The red head pushed himself off the bed and changed into regular clothes; jeans and a white T-shirt, before strutting downstairs to where his mother, not their usual chef, was hunched over the oven, blowing something and stirring a pot of red pepper soup. Jack made a face but said nothing. He made his way to the table and sat down quietly in front of a crystal clean plate, and cutleries with swirling designs on their tips. He noticed that there was only one other group across from him. Good. At least his mom was starting to accept again that his father didn't eat anything at home ever.

"How was school?" his mother's voice chirped brightly, as she brought the pot to the table and poured soup into Jack's bowl. It's spicy scent itched his nose.

"It was fine."

"And choir practice? How are all the boys?"

"I'm doing well, and they're ok." Jack really felt malice towards these mom-to-son chats at the dinner table and at night time. His mouth deepened his frown and he slurped some soup, ignoring the bitter taste as it went down his throat.

"And how about that new boy? Ralph, was it? Have you guys been connecting well?"

To this, Jack's frown turned into an upright smile. Ralph was an interesting topic for him. He wasn't sure where to start with the blonde. His mom knew well enough, after Jack told her, that Ralph had been one of the boys that had been trapped on the island with him. Amelia Merridew was convinced that Jack could ease the "pain" of being on that piece of land by being around the other boys who shared his experience. Little did she know that rejoining his band of hunters had only made Jack regain that dangerous and feral leadership once again. Even she didn't know every wild party he threw, every rule he broke in school, every littleun he made cry. Course, the "littleuns" were freshman, not 6 year olds.

But even with the fun he got out of it, Jack hated this protection everyone gave him. The protection so that his perfect image would not be tarnished. His parents, the neighbourhood, the schools, even the Church. They didn't accept that Jack was anything less then a perfectly civilized and well-brought up boy. They shielded their eyes and believed that the island was only a small bump in his life and that his rebelliousness would soon pass.

It had been four years. You'd think they'd have wizen up and realized that this was who he is. A harsh, violent human being who loved to be in control, loved to be obeyed and loved to be feared. Oh, yes. He fed off of fear. If he could, he wouldn't need anything else but the taste of over-powering another living thing, of destroying them from the inside out, of corrupting their minds, of reminding them that he was power. He was everything.

Jack swirled his soup and blew the steam. "Yep. We've become close friends."

"That's good, that's good!" his mother nodded happily. "You should invite him over sometime!"

Wouldn't Ralph love that? Jack could already imagine the look the teen would give him if he suggested such a thing. The imagery made the red head chuckle.

On the first day, Jack had been too preoccupied with discussing the latest insane party that had taken place at Roger's to notice the blonde who had been ushered to sit right in front of Jack. And even afterwards, Jack had, had only a small remembrance of the new kid. He didn't much care for such things. The newbie would soon fear and listen to him, like the rest of the school.

Yet it had only taken one glance, one small eye contact between the two old rivals during a choir practice, for Jack's feelings towards Ralph to unfurl and explode. All the hatred, all the admiration, all the memories of sharp sticks and hunting flooded Jack's senses like a tidal wave at that moment. But calm and cool, like the chief he was, he merrily hid his feelings and winked in the blonde's direction. The answer he received was very fulfilling.

From then on Ralph had sunk back into being Jack's prey. But instead of killing him, which he knew no one was going to hide, he decided to torture the boy in many ways that society was used to seeing but did not stop. It was perfect. And even when Ralph stopped looking like it bothered him, Jack always knew the right buttons to press, the right words to whisper. He knew Ralph all too well.

Jack didn't need the other boys, not even Roger Paling, who were feverishly bored with Ralph. He, by himself, could make the teenager's life, even after the island, a living hell. Some would call it obsession. Perhaps Jack would agree with that. Ralph was the one prey that had escaped him. And he couldn't stand that, not for a single moment. So he exploited the fate of meeting him again.

Jack finished his lunch – grounded meet loaf and mashed potatoes – quickly and raced back upstairs to his room. He never started homework immediately, always choosing to call a former hunter or his latest hook-up. But, too tired to do that even, Jack threw himself on his bed again and this time, kept his eyes open, looking up at his prickly white ceiling above, smiling like a madman.

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Ralph scratched his forehead, and plopped down onto his rotating seat. Dinner was great today. Freshly cooked, hot-sauce covered shrimp. His father had sent the best of the best from his trip to Japan to his family. Ralph noted that he would need to send his father a thank you letter or something. Even though he wasn't there, still stationed in Kazakhstan, it was great that he had still managed to connect easily with him. He knew his mother loved the shrimp especially since she was in love with seafood.

Ralph let a grin brush his features before yawning and grabbing a book from his case. He dropped the heavy Math textbook in front of him onto his rickety wooden desk. The blonde never thought of replacing the counter, loving to see all the carvings he had made over the years etched in black all over. There were pictures of large dragons and imaginary monsters, as well as ships and planes. Text was also engraved into the fine oak, words of the past and perhaps of the future.

The teenager slid his fingers over a certain section of the desk. It was the farthest corner, sinking into darkness even when the lights were flickered on. It was his most personal area of the furniture. It was every single picture or word he had chiselled after the experience on the island. If someone were to compare that corner to the rest of the desk, one would conclude that the corner was much messier, less clear and possibly a lot more darker. Sometimes meaningless lines were deeply chipped into the wood, so deep that it almost went through to the next piece of oak.

But Ralph could read it. He could read it all and feel the emotions of four years pass rising up and chocking him till he blinked tears away.

There were about a dozen pictures of pigs, in all positions, and lines representing stakes going through each one. One pig was special though. While the rest of it's body was missing, it's head, it's soulless, evil eyes, glared up at you, while it's mouth, ceased by a driving stick, grinned devilishly.

Ralph remembered that frantic night, waking up after a goulash dream, grabbing the scissors that had been so continently left on his desk, and carving the image of the Lord of the Flies as detailed and furiously as possible. When he was done, he had thrown the scissors across the room and gone back to sleep

Every time he saw it now he would shiver, frightened by his own art.

Now his attention was driven to the texts. Like the pictures, they, too, were crazy and hard to read. Some were repeated words such as 'savage' and 'fire' written in upper case letters and underlines many times with blue. With one word that taken up half the corner, 'Jack', Ralph had crossed the name and inked it with a red pen. How creative.

To finish of his ceremonial checking on the area, Ralph expressively grazed the two gravestones that were on either side of the hated name. One had the clean words SIMON JARELD: ISLAND VICTIM scratched inside. Ralph gave off a soft sigh and bit his lips. Simon had been the most civil of them all. And he had been killed in cold murder. The blonde's fingers then moved to the second gravestone. It had taken him a year and a half of searching but he finally discovered his greatest friend's name. HARRY THOMAS: ISLAND VICTIM. Piggy had been the smartest of them all. And he had been killed in cold murder.

Jack. Ralph grinded his teeth and, with his curled fist, punched the name in the middle of the two pictures. Jack Merridew. The monster, the beast, the devil himself. Oh how Ralph hated him! Living and breathing, having a good life and a future, smiling each day, free of the lost innocence. Simon and Piggy deserved that! Not him!

And neither me, Ralph whispered to himself, in an attempt to calm down. He brought his burning hand to his chest and breathed deeply. He was just as responsible for everything as Jack was. At least, he saw, he was living for Piggy and Simon, not just for himself. And that kept him going up to this point.

Ralph raked his fingers through his hair and sucked in some oxygen before letting it out and leaning into his work.

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