Scarred for Life
A/N: I first read Lord of the Flies when I was 13, and again as a
school assignment the next year, and I could never deal with Simon's
death. Since the book never
specifically states that he "dies", I came up with my own theory. Since then I've been telling people about
it, but barely anyone agrees…it's actually quite horrid. Kind of like trying to convince people that
everyone in Lord of the Flies has a Harry Potter counterpart. Like Neville represents Piggy, Harry represents Simon, and Sam 'n'
Eric represent Fred and George…I can't remember all of them though…Anyway, I
decided to write my theory about Simon into a story tonight because I was reading
some LOTF fic…and you know how it goes, you read fic, you get inspired, yada
yada yada…
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Flies, any
characters, ideas or settings pertaining to the book, etc.
Claimer: I do own my theory about Simon's lack of
being dead.
Chapter One: Left to Die
After a while, he was only twitching, and the ravenous
monsters that had put him in that state were thoroughly satisfied that they had
killed the horrid creature and proceeded on to pursue other just-as-ruthless
ventures.
The lapping waves were warm and cool at the same time
against the skin of his seemingly lifeless body. He had stopped twitching, but was now shivering and struggling to
pull himself away from the salty water that was stinging in his deep wounds.
But it was no use.
He would have to stay here until morning and hope that the other…they
weren't boys, they weren't even people…the other…animals, didn't come back
before he could manage to come up with a plan.
Simon didn't understand how they could do this to
him. He had been trying to help them,
not harm them…and the people he once thought of as friends, had turned on him
that quickly. In their minds he was
dead, and they were glad.
On second thought, they hadn't killed Simon, a boy, their
friend. In their twisted, disillusioned
minds, they had killed 'The Beast', an imaginary enemy they way the looked at
it, but one that, in reality, lied inside each of them waiting to be released.
Simon knew that, but he knew just as well, that it was
useless trying to convince the others of any such thing. They didn't want to know, they were somehow
strangely content in their violent make-believe world of half-truths. Maybe he could convince Ralph or Sam 'n'
Eric, but that was about it…not many of them would believe his preaching now,
not after Jack had gotten to them.
No, the best thing for him to do now was rest, and come
up with a plan in the morning. This
wasn't the time to worry himself about what to do…he already had enough of a
task ahead of him. That task was making
it through the night his many injuries…and it wasn't going to be easy with so
much sand and salt-water infecting the gashes all over his small, cold body.
P.S. I realize that this is very short, but that is
because the theory isn't all that long, and I wanted to break it up into
sections, so deal with it ok? I'd like it
a lot if you would be so kind as to read and review, but if you're boycotting reviews,
I suppose I could manage to not be horribly grief-stricken…You can even flame
me if you like, I don't believe I've been flamed. Just realize that no matter how much you fling wild accusations at
me, I won't renounce the validity of my theory.
