It's a warm night, and it feels almost like it did on the island. Most
people would probably find this weather comfortable, even soothing, but
it's sickening to me. The air is too thick. At least I can still see the
stars.The frogs are chirping quietly, far away. The air is hanging, still
and heavy, all around me. I wish the wind would come and brush it's cool,
comforting hand across my face and eyelids, breaking the stillness. It used
to rustle through my hair -the wind- flinging the blonde, wavy hair off my
forehead. My hair's too short for that now, though. I keep it cut close to
my skull, in short bristles; I feel gross if it starts getting too long
again. I always hated having long hair. It was a bad time. when I had long
hair. I always had to lift it out of my eyes constantly, just to see. And I
was so unclean, so dirty, and all I had were those stiff, gray schoolboy
clothes. We all wore them, though we hardly acted like schoolboys anymore.
And my nails were all but gone.
It's funny; being unclean never used to bother me when I was a kid. But I can't stand it any more. It brings back the memories. Sometimes smells or sounds bring back memories, but when it's feel it's even worse. When it's your body physically feeling a certain way. It's like you can't escape it. I shower a lot now. Sometimes I want to just stand there forever and I just keep scrubbing and scrubbing, hoping that someday maybe I'll get clean. There's so much that water can't wash away. Like knowledge... Like memories. Like guilt.
I can still see Simon, so small, so quiet, so helpless.. being torn apart. by people he had called friends. I was there that night, and I did nothing to stop them. I was part of that dance, that horrible fucking dance. It was fun for them, the killing, fun for us... We lost ourselves in that dance, gave into the vicious desires of instinct. It was dark that night, and we could barely see anything. We called him 'the beast'. We transformed him into the beast in our minds, saw him as an animal, as the enemy, so that it didn't feel wrong anymore... Jack and the others, they called me 'the beast' afterward, so it wouldn't feel wrong to kill me, and I called him the beast. We were all so naïve. The beast isn't the person you're killing, it is the killing in itself. It's that part of us, that thing inside all of us.
We may have escaped that island, but we will never escape the beast. After all, what was it that picked us up? A navy ship. A navy ship headed off into war, to fight the 'beasts' -the beasts who are just human beings like the rest, with families and friends and jobs and histories and dreams. But they too sail off to war, thinking they are doing the world a favor by ridding it of those they deem 'beasts'. They go on destroying each other and suffering and falling further and further into the abyss of warfare and nationalism until they no longer remember who or why they are fighting. And who is there to save them? No one. Everyone is so blind! Nobody sees the truth! You can call the person you're fighting the beast all you like, but the true beast, the true cause of all this suffering, is the darkness the resides in the darkest depths of every heart. The beast lives within each and every one of us, it's only a matter of time before it takes control of us and our innocence is lost. There's no one to save us, no glorious civilization, no Father, no Auntie, no adults to put everything into order. We can't escape it. It is inevitable. This empty, lonely knowledge is eating me away. And no one else knows.
No, not no one. Simon knew, didn't he? He knew all along. Why didn't we listen to him? I was chief. Maybe if I had told everyone to be quiet, maybe if I had encouraged him more to tell everyone. But all I did was laugh. Why was I chief anyway? I never understood any of it, not until it was too late. I was never the smart one; that was Piggy. Piggy and Simon. How ironic that they were the ones to die. And I was the one who survived.
I remember that night Simon told me I would get off the island. I called him batty then. Everyone was always calling him batty. He assured me I would get home but, funny I realize it now, he never mentioned himself getting home. Maybe he knew even then. Maybe somehow he knew he couldn't get off, not with the beast inside all of us. He was different. And the beast always goes for those who are different. He didn't seem angry though. I wonder if he forgives us.
I remember how he stayed with me and helped to build the shelters, when everyone else was off having fun. I remember how he gave Piggy his meat, when Jack wouldn't give him any. I remember the first time I saw him and he fainted. I remember how he was always going off on his own, thinking and wandering in the woods by himself. I wonder what it was he was thinking all those times. I wonder what life he came from that he should know who and what the beast was when the rest of us couldn't see. How did such awful, lonely knowledge come to such a quiet, young, innocent little boy? I can see him clearly in my mind. Small and scrawny, his skin tan and soft, his coarse black hair falling down over his startlingly bright blue eyes.
Simon could see what the beast was, he knew. But the beast never hurt him, not in the way it hurt the rest of us. He died, and yet. he died untouched. like an angel. The knowledge never ate away at him; he was able to live with it. And if he could, then maybe I can. He wanted to stop us, to help us, to save us from ourselves. And we killed him. But in a way, he was the only one who escaped. He was the true survivor. He escaped the beast, and this horrible beastly world. I hope he's at peace now. And I hope he knows that some of us heard him. Understand him. Remember him.
There are many nights like this, nights I give to Piggy, nights I give to Sam and Eric, even nights I give to Jack. But this night. This night I give to Simon. Never forget. never forget.
I slowly open my eyes and raise myself to my feet, pushing up off the arms of the porch-chair. I run my hand over my forehead, and through my short, bristling hair, out of habit rather than need, pushing imaginary hair out of my eyes. I take a deep breath of the warm, evening air and take one last long look at the stars shining down out of the darkness of the night sky, and head back inside the house.
Maybe the beast isn't inescapable. Maybe it's not inside everyone after all. Maybe there are others who resist, others like Simon, like Piggy. Even Sam and Eric and me, we tried at least. And at least I know now. I'm sorry I did a bad job then but I'm listening now, Simon! Perhaps it's too little, too late. But I will still go on trying, and remembering. And perhaps it's these few bright stars amidst the darkness that we live for.
It's funny; being unclean never used to bother me when I was a kid. But I can't stand it any more. It brings back the memories. Sometimes smells or sounds bring back memories, but when it's feel it's even worse. When it's your body physically feeling a certain way. It's like you can't escape it. I shower a lot now. Sometimes I want to just stand there forever and I just keep scrubbing and scrubbing, hoping that someday maybe I'll get clean. There's so much that water can't wash away. Like knowledge... Like memories. Like guilt.
I can still see Simon, so small, so quiet, so helpless.. being torn apart. by people he had called friends. I was there that night, and I did nothing to stop them. I was part of that dance, that horrible fucking dance. It was fun for them, the killing, fun for us... We lost ourselves in that dance, gave into the vicious desires of instinct. It was dark that night, and we could barely see anything. We called him 'the beast'. We transformed him into the beast in our minds, saw him as an animal, as the enemy, so that it didn't feel wrong anymore... Jack and the others, they called me 'the beast' afterward, so it wouldn't feel wrong to kill me, and I called him the beast. We were all so naïve. The beast isn't the person you're killing, it is the killing in itself. It's that part of us, that thing inside all of us.
We may have escaped that island, but we will never escape the beast. After all, what was it that picked us up? A navy ship. A navy ship headed off into war, to fight the 'beasts' -the beasts who are just human beings like the rest, with families and friends and jobs and histories and dreams. But they too sail off to war, thinking they are doing the world a favor by ridding it of those they deem 'beasts'. They go on destroying each other and suffering and falling further and further into the abyss of warfare and nationalism until they no longer remember who or why they are fighting. And who is there to save them? No one. Everyone is so blind! Nobody sees the truth! You can call the person you're fighting the beast all you like, but the true beast, the true cause of all this suffering, is the darkness the resides in the darkest depths of every heart. The beast lives within each and every one of us, it's only a matter of time before it takes control of us and our innocence is lost. There's no one to save us, no glorious civilization, no Father, no Auntie, no adults to put everything into order. We can't escape it. It is inevitable. This empty, lonely knowledge is eating me away. And no one else knows.
No, not no one. Simon knew, didn't he? He knew all along. Why didn't we listen to him? I was chief. Maybe if I had told everyone to be quiet, maybe if I had encouraged him more to tell everyone. But all I did was laugh. Why was I chief anyway? I never understood any of it, not until it was too late. I was never the smart one; that was Piggy. Piggy and Simon. How ironic that they were the ones to die. And I was the one who survived.
I remember that night Simon told me I would get off the island. I called him batty then. Everyone was always calling him batty. He assured me I would get home but, funny I realize it now, he never mentioned himself getting home. Maybe he knew even then. Maybe somehow he knew he couldn't get off, not with the beast inside all of us. He was different. And the beast always goes for those who are different. He didn't seem angry though. I wonder if he forgives us.
I remember how he stayed with me and helped to build the shelters, when everyone else was off having fun. I remember how he gave Piggy his meat, when Jack wouldn't give him any. I remember the first time I saw him and he fainted. I remember how he was always going off on his own, thinking and wandering in the woods by himself. I wonder what it was he was thinking all those times. I wonder what life he came from that he should know who and what the beast was when the rest of us couldn't see. How did such awful, lonely knowledge come to such a quiet, young, innocent little boy? I can see him clearly in my mind. Small and scrawny, his skin tan and soft, his coarse black hair falling down over his startlingly bright blue eyes.
Simon could see what the beast was, he knew. But the beast never hurt him, not in the way it hurt the rest of us. He died, and yet. he died untouched. like an angel. The knowledge never ate away at him; he was able to live with it. And if he could, then maybe I can. He wanted to stop us, to help us, to save us from ourselves. And we killed him. But in a way, he was the only one who escaped. He was the true survivor. He escaped the beast, and this horrible beastly world. I hope he's at peace now. And I hope he knows that some of us heard him. Understand him. Remember him.
There are many nights like this, nights I give to Piggy, nights I give to Sam and Eric, even nights I give to Jack. But this night. This night I give to Simon. Never forget. never forget.
I slowly open my eyes and raise myself to my feet, pushing up off the arms of the porch-chair. I run my hand over my forehead, and through my short, bristling hair, out of habit rather than need, pushing imaginary hair out of my eyes. I take a deep breath of the warm, evening air and take one last long look at the stars shining down out of the darkness of the night sky, and head back inside the house.
Maybe the beast isn't inescapable. Maybe it's not inside everyone after all. Maybe there are others who resist, others like Simon, like Piggy. Even Sam and Eric and me, we tried at least. And at least I know now. I'm sorry I did a bad job then but I'm listening now, Simon! Perhaps it's too little, too late. But I will still go on trying, and remembering. And perhaps it's these few bright stars amidst the darkness that we live for.