Hiya, this is my first completed fic, so please don't rip it to pieces, or
I may become even more cynical than I already am, and will probably take it
out on my muses.
Muses: NNNNOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! Shinigami, save us, KILL US NOW!
Heh-heh.
Disclaimer: I do not own Roger or Lord of the Flies, they belong to William Golding, and he can keep them. If you do sue, you will only get 15p, a very neurotic psyco-dog, and the ten-ton Nucleur Warhead that is hidden under my bed with the dust bunnies. Oh yeah, mustn't forget several pieces of unfinished coursework assignments.
Now, Read and Review please! *Does The Puppy-Dog Eyes* Sayonara!
***************************************************************
How long has it been?
How long has it been since.then?
How long has it been since the last time I was truly happy, since I was free? Too long, definitely too long.
I hate this world. I hate this world and everyone in it. Scurrying around like ants, trying to suck up to whoever is the 'Queen' at that time. I hate ants. When I was a littun, I used to watch them scurry around, too caught up in their own little lives to take any notice of the kettle of boiling water over their heads. Heh-heh. I hate ants. I hate people.
They say I'm insane, well; I'd rather be insane than be like them, living their petty little lives, imagining a happy future that will probably come true when pigs fly, pretending to care about others, while laughing at their stupidity, and mocking at them. They lead you on, making you think you can trust them, then push you off the Mountain of Hope as soon as you reach the top. Damn them, damn them all to hell. Throw them down to the Lord of The Flies in his fiery pits below. Who cares? Not me.
My parents never cared about me. Growing up, it seemed all I heard from my parents was "Dammit Roger, why don't you go play in traffic", "You have embarrassed the family name Roger", and my all time favourite, "Get lost freak". It's so nice to have the approval of your family, isn't it? Or if you need any more examples of what life is really like, how about I tell you a story about one young boy who was bullied at school. He went to tell his mother about it, and all he received was a clip round the ear to shut him up and a hissed "Stop making so much noise, freak." Or how about the time I needed a tiny bit of help on my homework, asked my father for help, and got a sneer and a "Too stupid to do it yourself" in exchange. I think in the end they got so sick of me they sent me to boarding school. I didn't care at the time; it had to be better than life at home.
Then the war began.
The island. the Paradise. We were free. Free from humans expectations, free from society's influence. There we could be true to our own nature, not the front everyone else wears to make them look better than they are. We were not ants. We were wolves. We hunted, no longer trapped by our former constraints. We were finally free.
Then He took that all away.
Because of Him, we were found. Because of Him, the island and all its freedom was taken away from us. Because of Him, I was sent back to my parents.
I got my revenge in the end though.
Anyway, back to our regular programming. Where was I? Oh yeah, my parents. After we were taken away from the island, I was sent back to my parents, along with a report of what happened. I can still remember that first evening back. Me, sitting on the red armchair by the fire, my spear lying in my lap. My father glaring at me, his eyes glowing green flames from the other side of the fireplace. My mother, next to him, staring with hatred in her usually emotionless ice blue eyes. Fire and Ice, those are the things I remember about my parents the most. What do you get when you mix fire and ice together? In my parent's opinion, you get mud. Me.
However, I will always savour what happened next. No matter how much they try to make me conform in this wretched place, I will always remember that memory and enjoy it. My father made the first move in our stalemate. The memory of him pounding me relentlessly still makes me shake. I could feel my ribs start to crack and break as he continued to punch, over and over again, muttering under his breath "Freak. Bastard. Do you have any idea what you have done to the family name when this will get out!" I remember hearing my mother hiss in that quite voice of hers, "We should have killed you at birth". I think that sentence made me break.
Lifting my spear, I can still remember the look in my father's eyes when he realised that the thing sticking out of his back was my spear. Fear, and panic. The exhilarating power I had over him made me giddy with delight. I remember laughing as his life force trickled down in rivers of red, watching my mother's horrified expression as the fire went out of my father's eyes. See Ralph, our puny little sticks can kill a beast.
So that's how I got here at St Cecil's Institute for the Mentally Ill, or as the inmates call it, Camp Happy Pines Insane Asylum, where you, my dear doctor, are currently trying to make me "normal" again. Save your breath, because the day I am ever leaving this place would be in a coffin. I don't want to go back, because this place has already given me the greatest gift it could ever give. My revenge on Him.
After I had been here for a couple of years, He came. The doctors said it was paranoia, which is to be expected from what happened on the island. All I know, it that one day, I was in line for lunch with all the lovely inmates of Camp Happy Pines Insane Asylum, holding onto my set of plastic cutlery that couldn't even cut a mushy pea, when I see him in front of me. It was too much of an opportunity to do otherwise. I crept up silently, and whispered in his ear,
"Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!" His eyes grew so big it seemed like they would pop out of his face, and shrieked. He ran out of the cafeteria and ran down the hallway, screaming his head off, his blond hair trailing behind him. That was fun! After that, wherever he went, I would follow, constantly hissing "Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!" and "I've got a stick sharpened at both ends, just for you!" I toyed with him like a cat with a mouse, first this way then that way, until he could not take it anymore. He committed suicide, by using his clothes as a noose. Too bad, it is getting boring now. Goodbye Ralphy-boy. Heh-heh.
So this is my life story, my dear doctor. I suppose when you suggested I write this as a "way of clearing the storage space" in my mind, that this is not what you expected to get. Good, I don't like being ordinary. Don't forget though, my dear doctor, that you are next. Even here in this isolated prison, news from the outside world still gets through. News about a new war, one whose weaponry will destroy the world in its folly. So repent all ye sinners, for Death wanders the land, his scythe in hand, choosing his victims.
And I, my dear doctor, will gladly welcome him.
Muses: NNNNOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! Shinigami, save us, KILL US NOW!
Heh-heh.
Disclaimer: I do not own Roger or Lord of the Flies, they belong to William Golding, and he can keep them. If you do sue, you will only get 15p, a very neurotic psyco-dog, and the ten-ton Nucleur Warhead that is hidden under my bed with the dust bunnies. Oh yeah, mustn't forget several pieces of unfinished coursework assignments.
Now, Read and Review please! *Does The Puppy-Dog Eyes* Sayonara!
***************************************************************
How long has it been?
How long has it been since.then?
How long has it been since the last time I was truly happy, since I was free? Too long, definitely too long.
I hate this world. I hate this world and everyone in it. Scurrying around like ants, trying to suck up to whoever is the 'Queen' at that time. I hate ants. When I was a littun, I used to watch them scurry around, too caught up in their own little lives to take any notice of the kettle of boiling water over their heads. Heh-heh. I hate ants. I hate people.
They say I'm insane, well; I'd rather be insane than be like them, living their petty little lives, imagining a happy future that will probably come true when pigs fly, pretending to care about others, while laughing at their stupidity, and mocking at them. They lead you on, making you think you can trust them, then push you off the Mountain of Hope as soon as you reach the top. Damn them, damn them all to hell. Throw them down to the Lord of The Flies in his fiery pits below. Who cares? Not me.
My parents never cared about me. Growing up, it seemed all I heard from my parents was "Dammit Roger, why don't you go play in traffic", "You have embarrassed the family name Roger", and my all time favourite, "Get lost freak". It's so nice to have the approval of your family, isn't it? Or if you need any more examples of what life is really like, how about I tell you a story about one young boy who was bullied at school. He went to tell his mother about it, and all he received was a clip round the ear to shut him up and a hissed "Stop making so much noise, freak." Or how about the time I needed a tiny bit of help on my homework, asked my father for help, and got a sneer and a "Too stupid to do it yourself" in exchange. I think in the end they got so sick of me they sent me to boarding school. I didn't care at the time; it had to be better than life at home.
Then the war began.
The island. the Paradise. We were free. Free from humans expectations, free from society's influence. There we could be true to our own nature, not the front everyone else wears to make them look better than they are. We were not ants. We were wolves. We hunted, no longer trapped by our former constraints. We were finally free.
Then He took that all away.
Because of Him, we were found. Because of Him, the island and all its freedom was taken away from us. Because of Him, I was sent back to my parents.
I got my revenge in the end though.
Anyway, back to our regular programming. Where was I? Oh yeah, my parents. After we were taken away from the island, I was sent back to my parents, along with a report of what happened. I can still remember that first evening back. Me, sitting on the red armchair by the fire, my spear lying in my lap. My father glaring at me, his eyes glowing green flames from the other side of the fireplace. My mother, next to him, staring with hatred in her usually emotionless ice blue eyes. Fire and Ice, those are the things I remember about my parents the most. What do you get when you mix fire and ice together? In my parent's opinion, you get mud. Me.
However, I will always savour what happened next. No matter how much they try to make me conform in this wretched place, I will always remember that memory and enjoy it. My father made the first move in our stalemate. The memory of him pounding me relentlessly still makes me shake. I could feel my ribs start to crack and break as he continued to punch, over and over again, muttering under his breath "Freak. Bastard. Do you have any idea what you have done to the family name when this will get out!" I remember hearing my mother hiss in that quite voice of hers, "We should have killed you at birth". I think that sentence made me break.
Lifting my spear, I can still remember the look in my father's eyes when he realised that the thing sticking out of his back was my spear. Fear, and panic. The exhilarating power I had over him made me giddy with delight. I remember laughing as his life force trickled down in rivers of red, watching my mother's horrified expression as the fire went out of my father's eyes. See Ralph, our puny little sticks can kill a beast.
So that's how I got here at St Cecil's Institute for the Mentally Ill, or as the inmates call it, Camp Happy Pines Insane Asylum, where you, my dear doctor, are currently trying to make me "normal" again. Save your breath, because the day I am ever leaving this place would be in a coffin. I don't want to go back, because this place has already given me the greatest gift it could ever give. My revenge on Him.
After I had been here for a couple of years, He came. The doctors said it was paranoia, which is to be expected from what happened on the island. All I know, it that one day, I was in line for lunch with all the lovely inmates of Camp Happy Pines Insane Asylum, holding onto my set of plastic cutlery that couldn't even cut a mushy pea, when I see him in front of me. It was too much of an opportunity to do otherwise. I crept up silently, and whispered in his ear,
"Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!" His eyes grew so big it seemed like they would pop out of his face, and shrieked. He ran out of the cafeteria and ran down the hallway, screaming his head off, his blond hair trailing behind him. That was fun! After that, wherever he went, I would follow, constantly hissing "Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!" and "I've got a stick sharpened at both ends, just for you!" I toyed with him like a cat with a mouse, first this way then that way, until he could not take it anymore. He committed suicide, by using his clothes as a noose. Too bad, it is getting boring now. Goodbye Ralphy-boy. Heh-heh.
So this is my life story, my dear doctor. I suppose when you suggested I write this as a "way of clearing the storage space" in my mind, that this is not what you expected to get. Good, I don't like being ordinary. Don't forget though, my dear doctor, that you are next. Even here in this isolated prison, news from the outside world still gets through. News about a new war, one whose weaponry will destroy the world in its folly. So repent all ye sinners, for Death wanders the land, his scythe in hand, choosing his victims.
And I, my dear doctor, will gladly welcome him.