Disclaimer: All characters and quotes (that are mentioned in this story) belong to William Golding and his wonderful book, Lord of the Flies
Summary: It had been 20 years after the horrible events on The Island. Jack made the successful transition to politics with the capitals he made in his business. In the first few years after he got rescued, the memories of The Island haunted him like a bad dream. It ate him inside out. Months after months, he tried to convince himself that whatever happened on "The Island" was just an awful hallucination, the result of inhaling German's acid gas. He succeeded. The Island sank deeply into his memories with all the other nightmares.
The Island was forgotten…
A/N: We thank you for taking your time to read this story, and deep apologize for the grammar errors, we tried our best. Reviews are welcome, since this is our very first fanfiction. Feedback would be embraced with love. (From Sandwich & Bread Cat)
THE FORGOTTEN
Chapter 1
Jack was about to enter the church when a sudden rush of uneasiness almost overthrew him. He stopped short and tried to locate the source of his agitation.
It was a perfectly miserable day. The City was enclosed by the filmy, depressing blanket of fog which it is famed for. The air was filled with the threat of rain and the musty smell that could only come from a neglected old house and The City.
Behind him, the horde of journalists screamed with renewed energy upon his abrupt halt. Jack knew, with certainty, that his secretary, Eric, was behind him, unsure what he was doing and willing him with appalling intensity not to ruin his career by picking his nose or doing something equally abysmal. So, Jack, in a gesture of extraordinary kindness to the journalists, turned around and waved to them. Barely managing to avoid being blinded by the startling flashes of lightning, he found Eric and gave him a reassuring smile, which, unfortunately, was only received with indignation.
The unsettling feeling was long gone by the time Jack stepped into the building. Once the bustling noises were isolated to the outside, Jack was no longer sure if it really existed in the first place; he tucked it in the back corner of his mind and was determined to think about it no more.
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The church was not especially grand. The bare beams supporting the ceiling, built for the purpose of promoting humbleness, only appeared stingy and desolate. The wall was scarred along the bench by the hands of the uninterested during all the Sundays over the years. The church was built economically, solely for the sake of having a church in the neighbourhood.
Jack smiled smugly at the ingenuity of his own design. Of course, arranging to visit a church so obscure and unimportant was the very proof he needed to demonstrate his own supposed unostentatious nature. A man of comparatively good breeding, who was intelligent and lucky enough to struck a fortune, yet still cared enough about his hometown to return and contribute with such great sincerity, was surely the object of much praising, as well as a capable candidate for the mayor.
And dare I say, thought Jack, much more. From The City, he would launch his platform, recruiting the allies, destroying the enemies, and bribing whatever was left. He was still young, little more than thirty. With his wealth and charisma and connections, he knew he could not reach his own limit in his lifetime. A smirk crept up on Jack's face. And it was the loveliest thing to think that no one would find out. The fools who were unworthy of worshiping his feet would not see anything but what he chose for them too see. Jack had ambitions, and the means of achieving them. In the end, reigning on the top of the world will be…
"Mr. Merridew?" A voice summoned him back from the future of his delusive vision. Jack mentally reminded himself to muster his most self-assured smile before looking up. However, the effort was suspended upon the unreasonable familiarity the strange face before him struck. A feeling arose in him that was something of a void long forgotten and a piece of fragmented memory that could only be recalled fuzzily between the narrow boundaries of nightmares and reality.
"Oh, yes. I am Jack Merridew. Pleasure to meet you." Sure that he would not like the answer, Jack composed himself enough to ask. "I do not mean to intrude, but you are?"
"My name is Ralph Watson. Mr. Merridew. I am the minister of this church."
Jack was startled. His tangled pieces of memories seem to become even blurrier. "Ralph, Ralph…" he murmured quietly to himself, "Where have I heard this name before?"
Ralph smiled gently at Jack, didn't seem to mind the others man's odd reaction. He nodded politely towards Jack before walking to the podium. His black robe swept behind him quietly as he went, as if a victorious general stride proudly to his prize.
Jack decided on that very spot that he did not like this man at all.
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Jack stared blankly at the well curved window frame behind Crucifixion, didn't take any interest in the emotional speech Watson was delivering. As a young boy, he had never liked going to church. If it was not for the chores, he would never have taken Christianity seriously. He waited impatiently for the fair haired priest to finish what he believed a long and boring lecture, so he could get out this place and wave at the journalists and photographers while smiling assertively. He smirked, thinking how easy some people can be fooled by his act.
Before Jack had realized, people started to stand up. He too, stood up, smoothing the tiny wrinkles on his suit.
"Mr. Merridew."
Jack turned, seeing Ralph walking up to him, still with that harmless, but annoying smile.
"Yes, Minster?"
"I just want to thank you for coming here today. We rarely see any politician nowadays."
"That's a pity." Jack nodded, clearly hinting that this conversation was over.
Ralph seemed to catch that hint quite quickly, "Well, thank you again Mr. Merridew."
They shook hands, smiling at each other.
Jack walked down the aisle hastily. He did not like what he saw in Ralph's eyes, but he wasn't sure he saw it correctly. There was an impious look in Ralph's eyes. A kind of hate that could not express by words, so dark, so hollow, as if looking into a dead…
The mayor candidate suddenly shivered violently. Another pair of black eyes emerged from a gloomy part of his memory he tried to forget.
The crowd of journalists tore him away from the intense evil gaze. The church door was shut behind him with a quiet thump.
Suddenly everything was silent. Only Ralph's last bitter words that came through the crack of the doors lingered in the suffocating air.
"Do you still remember Piggy?"
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"Eric?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you know who Piggy is?"
"Pardon me, sir?"
"Piggy…"
"I don't believe so, sir. It sounds like a nickname given to a young child by his friends."
Jack fell silent, but his eyes never left Eric, who was busy with the documents on the other side of the room. He did not know how Eric did it. How he could still be so confident after his twin, Sam's death. Jack narrowed his eyes. He definitely smelled something funny in the air.
"Eric, go to bed. We are done for today."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes."
Eric shut the door timidly, but not before he poked his head into the room and bided Jack good night.
The soft click brought the room into complete stillness. Jack closed his eyes, stretched lazily in his chair, sipping the last remain of the excellent tea which Eric brewed before he left, feeling nothing but absolute contentment. Right now, the little encounter in the morning became a bit ridiculous. Jack laughed quietly to himself. That Ralph must be crazy.
"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"
Jack sat up in a jerk. He looked in the dark room in alert. Did he hear that? He was not sure. The room was covered in a raven blanket, except the dim light from his table light. Shadows stood around him soundlessly, seeming to wait, to expect.
"Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"
The voice became louder and louder. It came from everywhere. The young boys' innocent voices turned into daggers with these words. It wounded his arms and legs. Blood spitted out from the cuts and turned into a crimson fire. Everything started to burn: the room, the suddenly shuffle of shadows, and his body. There were hands clutching his leg. The face of a fat boy touched his cheek.
"My specs! Give me my specs!"
Jack staggered out of his room and into the dark hallway. The face, so vivid and alive, suspended itself in front of his vision. Its eyes saturated with indignation, projected livid spears that pierced right through Jack's consciousness. Pieces of broken memory from his past squeezed and pushed themselves to the surface, but twisted together into a muddled monstrosity before they had the chance to be recognized.
A moist earth with the scent of fresh dropping.
A humiliation too great to bear.
"I am chief. I have meat…How could we have killed it…"
Jack stumbled across the hallway, barely able to support himself.
And in the end, there was always the face, podgy and so filled with rage that the fat shivered in ripples. A pair of glasses with one broken lens dangled precariously on one ear.
"I got the conch! I tell you, I got the conch! Listen!" The face would always demand. Yet what it wanted to say Jack never comprehended.
His feet had directed him in front of Eric's door, seeking salvation without the navigation of the mind. Before Jack realized what he was doing, he shoved himself into his secretary's room and screamed with all the intensity he possessed.
"ERIC!"
But Eric was not there. For one moment Jack panicked that he would never wake up from this horrendous nightmare and that the ravenous face would finally devour him. But somehow hearing his own voice had brought him nearer to the reality and the voices wavered slightly. So Jack tried again.
"ERIC!"
The face faded.
Jack smiled with relief. He had found the weapon after all. He stood in the middle of the room, mocking the shadows cowering in the corners that only a moment before had seemed so menacing and insurmountable.
"So this really is a dream. Ha. I will certainly have a good laugh at this when I wake up. What a ridiculous dream this is. Simply absurd. I suppose the stress of this election must be getting to me. But no matter, I am Jack Merridew, and I get what I want. No one is the better of me. A dream, this is just a dream, a stupid, random dream. Yes, no dream is going to get the better of me because I am Jack Merridew and Jack Merridew is better than everyone, isn't he? Of course he is. Why would I even bother to ask? Everyone knows that Jack Merridew is Mayor Merridew, wait, oh, I am such a kidder. Prime Minister Merridew! Oh yes, wouldn't that be grand. Prime Minister Merridew. Oh yes, it is a perfect name indeed…"
Convinced that the voices had subdued sufficiently for him to re-enter the hallway, Jack pushed open the door. He extended his long leg tentatively and allowed his toes to touch the floor just outside. Sure that its existence was corporal and not a mirage designed to deceit him, he let his body to follow suit. All the while, he muttered to himself for the comforting security.
"…The people that supported me will get what they are promised, of course. Oh yes, they will be awarded. But those do not will certainly suffer. Oh, what a pleasure to even think about it. Award is sweet and punishment bitter. Can't deny it, really, I am impressed…"
Even though Jack knew that he had defeated his own nightmare, the stifling suffocation
of the walls still made his exceedingly uncomfortable. So he decided to take a stroll outside.
"…I am just going to get my coat, of course, when I am the king a servant shall do that for me, and if he complains, no, if he looks like he wants to complain, I will chop his head off, yes, down his head will come. Sure, it's late, but who cares when I am the king. You know what? I won't even go out when I am the king since I would have streets in my own room…"
A click in the lock interrupted his boisterous rambling. Jack froze. His brilliant future immediately slipped away along with the reverberation. The present sneaked up on him and the shadows grew immensely larger instantly. Jack watched the rotating doorknob with fearful revere, awaiting the creature on the other side. The last trace of the effect of his portentous prediction had yet to dissipate, so he braced himself, still half-convinced that he was invincible.
Entered Eric, carrying a fresh wisp of morning mist. Jack was felt that a burden on his shoulder he did not even realize existed was lifted. He stared at Eric, watched him wince at his presence, and before he had the chance to express his gratefulness, was immediately taken over by paranoia.
"What were you doing out so late?"
Eric did not respond. He lowered his head in silence.
Jack waited impatiently.
"Well?"
Eric lifted his head, and met Jack's eyes.
"Why?"
"What do you mean why? You are my secretary. You are paid to live here and assist me in everyway you can, at least during the campaign season…"
As if didn't hear him, Eric continued.
"Why? Jack?"
"What? What is wrong with you? You went out…"
"You promised, Jack."
Jack's speech was cut short. There was definitely something not right in the way Eric said that. The tone in everyway resembled a desperate, abused child pleading for mercy from his abusers.
"You said you are going to protect us."
"Don't you remember? Jack?"
Eric stepped forward, and Jack retreated.
"You said if there's a beast you will hunt it down and kill it, Jack."
"You said you wouldn't let it harm us."
Eric took another step, forcing Jack further back.
"Why is Simon dead? Jack?"
"Why is Piggy's head smashed open? Jack?"
Eric reached for his left hand for Jack, and it took Jack all his strength not to scream.
"You said we are going to hunt and have fun."
"Did you not promise? Jack?"
"Why did you steal Piggy's glasses?"
Jack was backed against an end table in the hallway.
"Don't you want to be rescued? Jack?"
"You are the chief. Aren't you? Jack?"
Eric grasped Jack's shoulders and wringed them with all his might.
"Why won't you help us? Jack!"
"Why? Jack? Why? Why? Why!"
From Jack's throat came a helpless sound he was almost sure did not belong to him.
"That was Piggy's face." was his last thought before the world turned black.
TBC