This was originally written as my English final this year. I got 30(+5)/30 points for it. :D It takes place roughly five years after the book ends. (In case you haven't noticed, I like using five-year marks; it's a nice round number. XD) It's pretty creepy at the end, and it is really recommended that you've both read the book and remembered Simon's epileptic fit. Why? You'll see.
Jack could only stare at the square block hanging on the wall. Greens and browns collided with dripping reds and dirty whites that impaled themselves on the form of a stick. The odd picture hung against a dull grey, concrete wall that formed a quarter of his penitentiary cell. Living in an asylum for the last five years didn't give Jack much for entertainment, but this…
Jack inspected the gift from his longtime "friend." Although his gaze was seemingly blank, he was well focused on the image, and he knew right away just exactly what it was.
"My gift," he muttered to the stale air. A peculiar smile crossed his face as he remembered. "My gift to the beast." How that lad came across the impaled sow's head was beyond Jack, but then again, so was all chance for help: friendly or otherwise.
Ralph finished painting the demonic pig earlier in the day; putting all the images that haunted him since his rescue onto canvas was a slow, seemingly helpful form of psychiatry, suggested by his shrink. As his artistic skill grew, so did the accuracy of his artwork and its effect on his conscience. However, throughout the five years since the island, one image constantly refused to properly form in a picture: the Lord of the Flies. That disgusting grin, framed by rotting flesh and dry blood, nearly picked clean by the pests it called subjects; Ralph could never portray it properly, until now.
Ralph leaned back in his studio chair with his arms in a cross and his eyes on the painting. The ugly sight was bordered by Ralph's other works –very few of which revealed any significant event or figure from the island; the idea was to let go, and he didn't want to hold onto those. The monster would be the most significant of them all, and Ralph considered with a huff that this image, drenched in madness and dementia, was his final hurdle on the long road to moving on.
Ralph stood from the wooden chair- his figure skinny, and dirty in a suburban way- and threw a cloth over his masterpiece. He felt like sharing the darkness with the man that originally supplied it.
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"Merridew! You've got a visitor!"
Jack groaned as he stiffly stood from his seat on the bed. He straightened his spine with a pop and watched through the small window in the iron door at his unexpected guest's arrival. The door creaked open, and the last shred of Jack's common courtesy kept him from sitting back down. Ralph quietly stepped in, well aware of the threat Jack still posed to him, and uncertain that the guard could do anything about it in time. Under his right arm, he carried a large, square object, covered in dull-brown cloth.
Ralph steadily sat down on a white chair perpendicular to Jack's bed. "Hello, Jack," he spoke to the figure that returned to its seat at the edge of the bed.
"Ralph," Jack addressed in a seemingly sinister whisper. The movement of the mouth clashed with the body's appearance: Jack was very thin, not according to his baggy, black and white striped clothes; every hair on his head was shaved off, even the eyebrows. He simply looked like a skeleton begging itself not to decompose.
"How have you been? Been doing alright?" Ralph innocently questioned.
Jack held out his hand to display his surroundings. "Take a guess," he retorted in a growl.
"You know as well as I do that you can't be let out. You still have a problem with stabbing inmates with your fork."
Jack immediately roared. "You have no idea! They can't even say the words "pig" or "ham" without me getting ready to kill someone!"
Ralph subconsciously groaned. "It's not funny at all Jack. You're still as bloodthirsty as you were on the island, and that's never going to help you get out."
Jack quickly ended his laughing fit, and looked into Ralph's eyes very seriously. "What do you care? You're the one who put me here. Why do you want me out?"
"I don't."
Jack narrowed his eyes at Ralph's response.
"But…I've been spending the last five years getting over all that, and I can finally try to forgive you for everything." He looked down at the square under his arm and pulled at the string binding the cloth. "In fact, I thought I'd give this to you. Something to share how I've felt and maybe to show no hard feelings."
Jack blinked when he saw that it was a painting, but initially paid it no mind. "You think that one of your ridiculous chicken-scratches is gonna make a decent cease-fire? Think again."
Ralph took the unraveled string and tied two knots in holes on the top of the picture. Using this "handle" Ralph hung the painting on a hook that jutted from the far end of the cell. "I don't have to, Jack. It's over now." Jack raised an eyebrow.
Ralph turned around to Jack and dug deep into his eyes. "Every nightmare that's haunted me; every friend that I lost, to death or otherwise; every slab of meat you've ripped from a carcass; their all in this last painting. I'm moving on, Jack. I'm leaving London, and I'm leaving you and my nightmares behind with it."
Ralph knocked on the iron cell door. The guard peered through the small window, and then opened the door. "I full-heartedly wish you well, Jack Merridew," Ralph spoke as he stepped out into the hall.
And so, Jack lay against the door of his cell, staring at Ralph's painting. The Lord of the Flies was the perfect embodiment of everything that Ralph had suffered, and Jack stared at it with a smile. Then, strangely, the smile began to fade. Jack narrowed his eyes as the picture began to move. The empty, skeletal eyes seemed to look straight at him, and the monstrous grin widened on its own. The colors bled into each other until the Lord of the Flies was the only recognizable object in the forest view.
"Jack…" it called, echoing in Jack's head. "Jack," it called again, this time perfectly clear. "Do you know what I am?"
Jack said nothing, but watched wide-eyed as the pig spoke to him.
"You were partially right, you know. I am a gift to the beast, but I'm not your gift." The pig grew in Jack's line of sight, until he was looking deep into the vastness of its eyes. "I'm Ralph's gift to the beast. You know what that means, don't you?" Jack still lay silent. "You're the real beast of the island." Jack's eyebrows wandered about his face. "And you know what we're going to do while we waste away in this prison together? We're going to have fun. That's right Jack. Lots and lots of fun."
Somewhere, deep in Jack's skull, a blood vein began pumping rapidly as Jack quietly whispered, "…Pig's head on a stick…"
Like it? Hope so! I'd ask you to tell me what you think, but English is over already, so... your choice, really.
-CSD