Disclaimer: I do not own the magnificent and thought-provoking work that is William Golding's Lord of the Flies.

Written: October 12, 2012

Lord of the Flies: Epilogue

The fair haired boy walked cautiously into the bedroom, heart heavy with the usual trepidation and eagerness. His fists were clenched, furling and unfurling. Sweat made them so soft and wet that he decided to simply leave them dangling at his sides. Eyes swept over the room, peering with quick intensity into each of the dark corners. He worried that the longer he stared the more overwhelming the blackness of it all would be for him; that he would find the Beast slouched and staring at him with empty eyes as it had done before. No. He had lingered too long. A piercing sound echoed about the walls, a fearful cry that was filled with great suffering and trauma. It made the boy want to cover his own ears before he could let out a similar sound; it was when he moved to open his mouth that he realized that he was the one making it.

"Ralph, darling, please settle down." There was silence.

"I'm sorry, Mum."

"Yes, yes."

"I love you, Mum." Such a statement would usually have been met with a strong embrace from the voluptuous woman, a mother who was usually so easily pleased by her child; a confession such as that would have had her beaming with happiness. Yet there were no returns of affections, confirmations, or a single sign of pride. Just an obligation to act as a mother. Disappointed, but not at all hurt, Ralph climbed into the bed with the same amount of anxiety that he had when entering his room. He lifted the covers first and sharply yanked them away from the mattress entirely. Patting the sheets and deeming it safe, he and his mother neatly placed the blanket back onto the bed. Next, he looked underneath his pillow, had his mother look into the wardrobe, and, lastly, he and his mother removed any items from under the bed. Ralph finally lied down, slightly twitching at the feel of cold linen on his skin. His mother stood patiently by the bed, waiting as the young boy adjusted to the still unfamiliar textures of the bed. Arms folded behind her back, red lips pursed, and a forehead framed by gold locks wrinkled, she asked the question: "Would you like me to leave the lamp on?"

To which Ralph always responded, "No thank you."

"Right then. Good night, Ralph."

"Night, Mum." Ralph was left in the darkness, with nothing but the silver rays of the moon granting him his sight. He lay in the grey darkness, shifting on the mattress as he listened for the sound of footsteps retreating into the bedroom down the hall. He heard a door quietly shut, and muffled voices leaked into his cracked doorway. Sitting upright and half-awake, Ralph threw the blanket off of him and onto the wooden floor. Ralph also removed his pajamas, laying in nothing but his skin on the hard surface that was mollified by the blanket. The fair haired boy sighed and gazed up at the ceiling, seeing but not seeing, mind wandering yet in place, in the past while he was in the present. What he saw was a sighing, dark blue sea, breath visible and white with each exhale. His mind tried to capture each and every one of the familiar features associated with the senses. He felt the gritty and moist sand on his back and he saw the wispy clouds in the sky. The salt in the air was so thick that he could not only smell but taste it. He was on an island. Ralph heard soft breathing beside him. He rolled his head to the side and looked into the endless black eyes of one of his long-time companions.

"Aye, Piggy."

"'ello, Ralph," Was the mumbled response, hallowed eyes unblinking behind shattered glasses, "Been awhile."

"Hm."

"You ought to be asleep now."

"Nah, I don't need sleep."

"I remember. I remember my auntie said that you need to always rest at night to get yer energy for the mornin'. Said you can get a lot done that way and that—"

"Sucks to your auntie," Ralph cut.

The two boys began to laugh at the nostalgic insult, Ralph's laugh dry and quiet, while Piggy's resembled little more than a thick and repulsive gurgling, as though he was laughing under water. This was a possibility as he might have very well been speaking from his own grave.

"I don't know how you can remember nothin'," Ralph grinned, white teeth glinting in the sunlight.

"I know. What with my head an' all," Piggy responded, tapping at the top of his head, thus eliciting a quiet squishing sound as pudgy fingers met the insides of a cracked skull. The action only made Ralph smile wider and he laughed some more as Piggy scrunched his face to imitate a pained expression.

"Jack still screams, ya know."

"Like a squealing pig, I bet. Like the ones he hunted. Or Simon."

"Roger is worse. He punched his sister the other night. Handed to the loonies, for sure."

"Serves 'im right."

"…Simon don't like the island no more. He wants grownups."

Ralph was quiet for a moment, "That's too bad."

"I ought to go home too, Ralph. To my auntie. I wanna get off this island."

"Ought to."

"But at least I have you, Ralph. You always listen to me, even when you don't want to."

"Yeah."

He could no longer see Piggy, the island had faded, leaving a black abyss. Ralph simply laid there, his body numb and unmoving, his wide eyes useless in the darkness. He made no move to panic, and he was in no way in despair at the complete isolation in which he had just been placed. It didn't matter where Ralph was right then, nothing mattered but the sound of his friend's voice. Whether he was in his room, the island; in reality or hell, he would always hear Piggy's voice. And he would always respond.

"Simon saw the Beast… Said it was black and mean and pure evil… Said it tricked him once, and it killed him. Have you seen the Beast, Ralph?"

"…Maybe."

"Ugly thing, ain't it?"

"The ugliest."