Lord of the Flies - The Difference Between Desertion and Abandonment

Disclaimer: I don't own LotF.

Once upon a time, I was a little boy. Once upon a time, we were all little boys.

They were in a rush. The crew had herded all the nearest children they could find into the evacuation plane. I could tell that this wasn't a drill like before, because everyone was pushing and shoving. I suppose I was just another random pick of the litter.

We [us boys] found our fairytale Neverland when the plane caught on fire and that man flying it just about dropped us in the middle of a deserted island. At the time, everyone was still a little nervous and wanted to go home to their mums and dads. So, I took charge.

I was the Chief.

It's not fair that this happened, because I thought I was a really good leader. I laid down the rules and I tried to think about what was best for the group. They had to understand that even if we didn't want it, order was what we needed. I tried to keep the signal fire going so that we could get rescued. Eventually, they stopped listening to me…

We tried to play at Treasure Island, we really did, but everything went knackered as all hell when the kids stopped getting serious and insisted on playing games. There were no grown-ups to stop them, and the games went on. And on. Until everyone fell apart and the strong beat on the weak.

This is all that damn Jack Merridew's fault. Jack and his hunters have turned absolutely flying bonkers since they left the beach. He and his group of friends, that arrogant all-boys choir, were only supposed to hunt us some pig meat. If I knew they'd turn like this, I never would've appointed him in the first place. For fuck's sake, if being a savage is any better than being rescued, then hang a noose 'round my neck and string it up the Tower of London.

Goddamn hunters. I hate them and I hate them and I hate them some more. Now two boys are dead. Piggy, who was so disgustingly fat and stupidly smart; and Simon, who never said a mean word nor bothered anyone. Their whole lives, ripped away from them. All because of these selfish hunters and their stupid games.

I'm angry. I'm afraid.

And I don't want to die.

Ralph stumbled through the trees, gasping and heaving. The blonde's quivering mouth was open in abject terror as he dashed his way through the jungle. He pushed through the thicket of pampas grass, and in the process, scratched his tanned limbs against their bristled leaves. Small red cuts formed where they made contact.

Behind him were the rough echoes of stampeding Spartans. Like orchestrated music, the Indian chants of his pursuers rose and fell with the huff and the buff of his trials.

Overhead, the sun's glare winked at him conspiratorially. The colossal orb was high. It was perhaps mid-noon. Warm gold filtered through the canopies, streaking the forest floor in indiscriminate buttermilk yellow. The birds were alert in their nests, trilling to one another in falsetto merriment.

In this game for survival, the daytime had become a double-edged sword. He could see; he could run and he could hide. They could see; and they could stalk and they could kill (would kill).

Light was kind. Light was warm. The chilling ambiguity of darkness – all we have to fear and all that we were taught to fear – was the traitorous contender humans loathed to embrace. That is, before they realized that they only had themselves to hold.

But he knew.

He knew its role in his approaching demise. Yesterday, it was the food that fed his hope. (fodder for the White lambs, and now they were all Black) Today, it acted as an all encompassing prison beacon, and he - cast into the starring role - played the convict running beneath it.

In short, he was completely visible. A sitting duck to their fatal advances.

With a renewed sense of dread, Ralph realized it would be a miracle if he were to escape from the island in one piece. It was ironic, almost. The precious sun lit hours were his most coveted during his stint as leader.

And now, the mountain was roaring up in flames.

Since a while ago, the lusty vermillion fire had slowly started to begin creeping near the edges of the forest. Now it was wild, rapidly stretching across the woodsy plain while the flames swallowed plants whole and spat out their ashes. Awful crackling sounds had filled the air as ancient, hulking giants bowed and fell down around him. The splint and crack of their bark imitated human groans – torturous noise to Ralph's ears.

Luckily, Ralph had distanced himself from the fire while it was still kindling low. While he could still catch a whiff of the smoke, he was in no immediate danger of burning. Currently, he was heading toward the beach. He needed to regroup with the little 'uns and find some shelter. The little 'uns were still but small boys, and needed some hefty guidance.

Suddenly, Ralph's foot caught against a ditch.

His eyes flew wide open.

Ralph grunted. In order to steady himself, he pushed his weight backward contrary to the direction he was falling. He managed to avoid the brunt of the fall, but only by awkwardly twisting his ankle.

The pain came instantly. It shot up his leg with vicious intensity, and Ralph winced as he caught himself from falling again. With clumsy movements, he slowly hobbled to a nearby pine tree, gritting his teeth as he went. Ralph leaned against it and cropped his knee to inspect the damage.

A painful hitch in his breath.

It had already begun swelling. The pink was clouding his skin in the way that coral flowered reefs in the basin. Ralph had sprained his ankle like this before, but his mother had been there to help him. But where was his mother now? Where were the doctors and the nannies? Not here. Never here. There were no people here.

Only animals.

This island, thought Ralph, was true No Man's Land. While the Third World War was being fought elsewhere amid the arid deserts of Egypt and shell-shocked streets of France, employed here was another kind of warfare altogether. That atomic bomb that the boys had so barely escaped from…were there any survivors? The pilot that steered their plane…did he regret volunteering to rescue a lonely batch of

Here, on this isolated tropical paradise, a lush and vibrant Eden, there was to be a legendary struggle fought between the most basic factions of human consciousness since the beginning of time: the tentativeness between right and wrong, civilized and savage.

From the moment their transport plane had crashed, some of the boys had regressed back down the evolutionary chain. Ralph somehow felt he was still intact as a human being (self-preservation was strong in his blood), but he nevertheless felt trapped on all sides.

The borders of this island were outlined with the entrails of murdered children. Simon and Piggy, who had long sunken into the white foamy swell, would someday roil within pregnant clouds, and in the guise of raindrops, return to England.

Ralph was almost tempted to join them, but felt a painful tug in his heart when he thought about ending his life. He couldn't possibly. Not when so many sacrifices had already been made…

And Ralph didn't belong here. The others could've for all he knew. But he - he had to get back home to his parents. He was better than them. Better than all those thieves and murderers. How stupid! How disgusting! He didn't need them.

With no Piggy, and no Simon, and no boys (he would sooner eat dirt than take them home; he would not be the Moses for the unwilling, and give them the milk and honey they didn't deserve), Ralph would be going home alone.

One way or another.

The blonde glanced once more at his foot before closing his eyes. He tried to picture his father in his naval officer uniform and broad shoulders, his mother in her white apron. He tried to ignore that their faces were blurry in his mind, and concentrated on the little details. Somewhere, in a dark corner of his subconscious, he was afraid that if he tried to recall them, the images would not come. And that scared him more than anything.

Keep going.

Ralph obeyed the voice.

They sniffed the air. They raised their spears. They let them fall. The jackals pointed, and they let out raw, dry barks that echoed in the clearing. Musicality in the undulating choir beasts' voices warbled then distilled in the green undergrowth. They stamped their feet in tandem to the notes. The largest of them reared back his fiery head, a nasty snarl distorting his young features. Red hair, dirty and tangled, whipped against his cheek.

"We've got him yet!"

The other jackals – boys – jeered back at their leader. They hooted and whistled, snuffling animal noises in the backs of their throats. They thumped their chests, projecting their triumphant grins into the hot tropical air.

"Hold my spear," commanded the leader to one of his subordinates.

"Boss," howled Roger, his voice rising above the others. "Let me at him first!"

Roger possessed a dark, lanky figure and an olive-complexioned face. Two sunken eyes peered out from the angular planes, burning with an unnamed energy. From the horde of savages, he stood out as the most dangerous and the most conniving.

Jack's right hand man.

"What do you think, boys?" The tall redhead asked as he raised his eyebrow in amusement. There was predatory gleam in his smile. "Should Roger get first lick?"

"What?"

"No fair! He got Fatty!"

"Not fair!"

"Not fair!"

"Not fair!"

"I think you should get that honor, Chief!" exclaimed one of the boys breathlessly.

He was the runt of the hunters, and belonged to one of the original black frocked choristers. However, even as Jack glanced at him, the leader could not recall the boy's name.

Nevertheless, Jack's face immediately lit up. "Now there's an idea."

"I saw him heading toward the beach, sir."

Jack pounded a fist into his palm, smirking deviously.

"Good. We can cut him off around the bend. But we have to move fast."

The agile boys sprinted quietly along the exterior of the mainland. Whereas the inner sanctum was padded with woodchips and downy leaves, the borders were mostly comprised of sandy mud. Despite the gritty ground, they managed to move relatively quickly, thanks to the even surface and the lack of plant life.

Jack wasn't the sharpest of knives, yet his grip on their group was undeniably firm. What he lacked in wit, he made up for in force of character and skill in hunting.

In but a year, Roger would've been able to outclass Jack. Roger, while not as strong as Jack, was the faster runner. He could outrun the other boys any day. If ever there was a hunter to represent the perfect form for all hunters, it was Roger. Given time, his young sinewy muscles would naturally develop and tighten – he would then be able to question the alpha male's role of authority. And he would've won. Intelligence, decisiveness, and physical endurance – Roger was excellent in all departments.

But who would follow him? Roger was a fearful predator, to be sure. Although clever and resourceful, he was also merciless. Sam and Eric bore the brunt of that evidence in the bruises, scrapes, and burns on their bodies. Roger was not admired by the other boys as Jack was. No, he was feared. The only reason the other boys pretended a "cordial" understanding with him was because they knew he was close to Jack. If Jack was a pharaoh, Roger was his high cleric. And if Roger saw fit to destroy one of the boys, he would not hesitate to slither lies into Jack's ears – and then, His Will be done.

The beach was now within sight.

As he was in the lead, Roger trotted up ahead. Habitually, he scanned the beach, half expecting Ralph and the little ones to be regrouping. No such sight.

The last time Roger saw the beach was yesterday. During that visit, he had been much too intent on his goal – pilfering that pink faced, pot bellied boy's glasses – to take much notice of the scenery. It was dark, he remembered. The sand was rusted umber, and the sky was navy arsenic. The stars were ivory teeth, and they clamped down on all sides of him, breathing hotly, breathing blood –

Roger shivered. He shook his head, wiping away the beads of sweat on the back of his neck. The skin there was flushed.

The young boy glanced once at the horizon – and that was all it took to send his heart palpitating over the edge again.

A ship! There was a ship anchored near the shore.

The ship's jauntily waving flag, erratically caught in the winding downshift of sea breeze, taunted him with memories of his motherland. They threw him back in time (was it really just several months ago?) to when he was a regular British schoolboy. The breeze that blew the flag then, in Pembroke Square and in sight of the old bell tower, was of a less salty kind, breathed in and blown over the River Thames.

He felt a rock lodge itself into his throat. He didn't notice when the other boys joined him on the muddy banks, in the junction between forest and beach, life and death, dream and reality, the wild and civilization. They, like him, stood there awestruck. The stunned savages suddenly realized how bare their feet were. Many long moments passed before any of them deigned to speak.

"Why now?" Sam and Eric, the pair of identical twins, wondered aloud.

"Must have been the fire."

"Must have."

"Mmn."

"What do we do?"

Silence.

As they speculated, a confused Jack loped off into the underbrush and an aggravated Roger followed after him. Once they were safe from listening ears, the dark boy began to plot out his next move.

"I have an idea," he hissed, gripping Jack tightly by the elbows.

His nails – untrimmed since their stay on the island – dug into the other boy's skin and immediately drew blood. Jack winced, but just as quickly assumed his signature steely glare. He shook Roger off of him, stepping back a few paces and watching him warily.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just listen to me," Roger frowned. Jack was slipping – he needed to keep him focused.

"Fine, I'm listening."

"That man – did you see his uniform? His ship? If he finds us, you know what will happen."

Jack found himself suddenly speaking in a hushed tone. "He'll take us back."

"Do you want to go back?"

Jack's eyes flashed red, turned uncertain. He clenched and unclenched his hands, as if working to undo whatever mist had fogged up his mind.

"I don't know."

"Ralph will get exactly what he wants! Our hunters – what do you think they'll do now that we're rescued? We'll lose everything, Jack! That rat wouldn't think twice to lie about damn near all of us. Everyone…" Roger paused to take a deep breath.

"…they're gonna call us killers."

The redhead instantly shot up in alarm.

"No way! He can't do that! Th-That tattler!"

As if just realizing the weight of his own words, Roger shook his head somberly.

"We'll have to get rid of him somehow."

"How?" asked Jack, eagerly leaning forward.

Roger grinned.

Oh God, it's so hot…

Ralph's mind was drifting in a perpetual white abyss; every so often, small doses of pathos pricked him awake and seemed to catapult him back into reality. He felt the determination whither inside his stomach, clench in upon itself, and give out a final heave. On its last legs, shaky and exhausted from "the good fight," it was about ready to expire.

Ralph finally collapsed near a small creak. The boy blinked blearily, contemplating his own death. He hadn't eaten a proper meal for the last few days (some blackberries and that was it) and the hunters were taking shifts so that they were constantly on his tail. For a while now, he had stopped hearing the deafening yowls of Jack's tribe. He didn't know whether to take that as a good or bad sign.

Just as he was drifting off, he caught a moving shadow in his peripheral vision.

For fuck's sake…! They're here.

His eyelids fluttered shut, perhaps for the last time.

Suddenly, Ralph awoke with a splutter.

"W-What do you think you're doing?"

He spat out surprisingly cold water. It had felt good against his parched throat.

A frightened whimper and Ralph saw that it was a little 'un.

Yes! He couldn't believe his luck!

Just as the younger boy was going to make a dash for it, Ralph called him back, "Wait!"

"What's your name?"

"O-Oliver."

Ralph surveyed him briefly. He looked no older than seven. Which wasn't too bad, considering that there were even younger little 'uns out there. Besides, he looked quite capable of following instructions.

At the older boy's silence, Oliver shifted around awkwardly.

"You're the Chief, aren't chu?" said the little 'un nervously, watching his bare feet.

"I am," answered Ralph firmly, set on believing that Jack had in no way usurped his position. Ralph was still the Chief. "Are you alone?"

Oliver shook his head, and Ralph watched as his body relaxed slightly.

"Me and a whole bunch of the smaller kids are still camping out on the beach. We haven't left it since you and those older boys went off to see the scarier ones."

Ugh, and what a mess that was. Ralph shook his head to clear his mind of Piggy, who had been thrown off a cliff by a boulder (pushed by that sociopathic Roger, no less); Sam and Eric, too, who were violently coerced into joining the hunters (also Roger).

Ralph sat up and grabbed the kneeling boy's shoulders. He stared at the frightened kid with the most serious eyes he could muster.

"Look, Oliver, I'm going to give you a very important job, okay? Are you listening to me? Good. You want to get rescued from this island, right?"

Oliver nodded vigorously.

"Great. I thought so. Now, I want you to bring all those boys with you to the beach. Get them there as quickly as possible if they're not there already. Can I trust you to do that?"

"Yes, sir!"

Ralph smiled tiredly. His sudden, unexpected ally invigorated his hope. He just prayed that it was enough.

"Good, then get going soldier."

Oliver hopped enthusiastically to his feet as Ralph released him.

"What about you, Chief?" he nonchalantly threw over his shoulder.

"I'll be here," gestured Ralph all around him. "Drinking water and getting back my energy. You saw me almost pass out here, didn't you? Well, thanks – oh, sorry I never thanked you. Anyways, I'll be down in a bit, so don't worry about me."

"Okay."

Oliver slid down the embankment, and pattered off into the distance.

"Sir, we've reached land."

"Good job, officer."

The blond sailor saluted, "Thank you, sir."

"Hoist the anchor," announced the captain of the D-Class Destroyer ship into his intercom. His voice was prim, contrite.

"Petty Officer Sanders," he turned to his companion, eyes creasing as he smiled charmingly. "How are your wife and son? I haven't seen little Ralph since he began primary school."

Sanders hummed a bright little tune. Something jazzy. The captain resolved to later ask him what the song title was.

"Well. As you know, they escaped to Australia once the atomic bomb hit. Most people did. I arranged for my boy to go first class if anything ever happened. But I haven't had a chance to contact my family yet, since we've been on the high seas for longer than I expected. So I suppose they're doing wonderfully, thank you for asking."

"How old is he now? Fifteen?"

"No, sir. Only twelve."

Some minutes later, the captain strolled down the lowered gangplank. He looked impressive with his crisp, white uniform and the golden epaulettes fastened to his broad shoulders. His bronze buttons were polished to a shine. The man was also an impressive height. He seemed imposing from every angle, a rare and neatly furbished specimen stepping foot on the chaotic island.

He tipped his cap with one hand, while the other stilled the cold, steel revolver behind his back. He looked up and smiled genially as best he could.

The naval captain was surprised when he came face to face with a small colony of brown boys, faces marked with war paint. Their clothing were tattered to rags, and their skin was badly smudged, harboring all kinds of filth. Some of them sported minor injuries like scrapes and bruises. The sand and sun had all but transformed them into upright monkeys.

"Hullo," the man said carefully, unsure whether they could understand him.

A tall and skinny redhead – seemingly the oldest boy of the bunch - seized the initiative by taking a belligerent step forward.

"Hullo," the boy echoed back hoarsely, eyes very wide. The ginger haired child was staring rather unabashedly. It was enough to make the captain feel slightly uncomfortable.

"Do you speak English?" he tried, at a lost for what to say.

The second oldest boy spoke up in absence of his friend, "We do, sir. We are all British citizens. Our plane crashed, and we've been here ever since."

British, eh? The captain's lip curled into what could only be described as an affectation of perplexity. He subtly retracted his concealed revolver into the confines of his coat. The kids were harmless.

"Huh. So you were playing a game," he said, inspecting the war paint. Of course they were. "Are there any adults around?"

"No."

The officer frowned. He didn't quite know what to say to that, either.

"Our sailors saw your distress call," he said at last.

The children all looked at one another and began muttering under their breath.

"The fire," he cleared his throat and clarified.

This sent the boys into a louder frenzy than before.

"Hum! So the fire did work after all!"

"Who would've thought…?"

"The Chief was right…"

This boy received a mild shove from the redhead he had initially been speaking to. "Shut up!" he snapped hotly. "I'm the Chief."

"Nobody killed, I hope? Any dead bodies?"

Roger slyly met eyes with Jack. This was the pivotal part of his plan. The apex, the crux in one of many steps in order to ensure the hunters extenuating amnesty.

"Only three. And they've gone."

Simon, Piggy, and Ralph…

Suddenly, loud shouts and dull thumps resonated in the air as a gaggle of little 'uns flooded the beach. Their boisterous squeals at being rescued threw the anticlimactic moment into momentary confusion. The tots kicked up sand when they came, causing some of the older boys to cover their eyes.

Roger sneered icily. Unintentionally, his narrowed eyes zeroed in on the back of one freckled little 'un's dainty neck, his fingers itching to…

…to what?

Roger furrowed his black eyebrows.

These irrational impulses of his were getting frequent lately. But somehow, it felt good to give in. All the slaughter and mutilation of wild pigs had satiated some bloodlust of his that he had always kept reserved and locked deep down in England, and at the same time they kept him yearning for more. Especially after the incident with the porky boy in spectacles…the mush that flew out of his head when the boulder smacked into him…

"Oh, man! He was right! We really were going to get rescued! Wahoo!" Without further ado, Oliver led the boys up into the trim cruiser.

Roger was startled out of his daydreaming. He shot Jack an alarmed look.

Jack gestured back at him smugly.

I'll handle it.

While the ship's crew tried to reign in the little 'uns who were running rampant, Jack discreetly slipped off into the forest, unseen by all except his most trusted cronie.

I should be heading down there soon…

While his accomplice went off to attend to his duty, Ralph made good on his word. He drank water and splashed some of it onto his injury. He wasn't sure if that would help, but at this point he was willing to try anything. Already he was feeling better.

"So this was where you were."

Oliver…?

Ralph screwed his eyes shut. No, he had to stop deluding himself. That voice belonged to…

"…Jack!" Ralph gasped as he was immediately seized by his throat. Desperate and caught off guard, he feebly batted at his aggressor.

The redheaded demon cackled nervously, his eyes full of paranoia and madness. Ralph had never seen him so…out of it. His hair was in a mess, sticking up at all ends and covered in woodchips. There was sweat dripping from his skin, probably from the heat of the fire.

The air between the two crackled with unresolved tension. Here was the dethroned prince and the Napoleonic success, battling it out for dominance.

"ACKKK…!"

Without warning, Jack reared back and punched Ralph in the gut. Horrified, the fallen blond started crawled backwards. But Jack would have none of that. He stomped forward like a juggernaut, easily towering over the other boy. He kicked him down and then once he straddled him, repeatedly began punching him in the torso. Then he went for his jaw, and then his gut again. As Jack unleashed his barrage of attacks, Ralph could do nothing but lay there like a fallen punching bag. He was dead tired, and every blow was an explosion of burning agony.

Finally, when Jack was done, he calmly got off of Ralph and left him there a bleeding, broken mess.

"I won't kill you this time," he said passively. "But I'll do something much worse for it."

Soon after Jack left the creek, Ralph fainted into white oblivion.

"We're getting home! Can you really believe it?" the twins, Sam and Eric, burst out simultaneously.

The beach was now very far from the ship. They could still see it, but it was an impossible swimming distance (especially for someone who was recently beaten to a pulp, thought Jack malevolently).

Strangely enough, it was if all the boys had forgiven each other for all their past transgressions on the island. Even the murders. Either the boys had genuinely forgotten in the ensuing joy of getting rescued, or they were pretending that they had forgotten (a bad dream really, and now they were all awake).

Jack and Roger sent each other relieved smiles.

"Did you…?" began Roger.

Jack nodded. He looked much calmer than how he was previously. Perhaps it was because he felt he had the settled the score between him and Ralph.

"Yeah, I took care of it."

They high-fived.

"Hey, boy, over here," an officer called out to Roger.

"Sir…?" said Roger while cautiously approaching. Something about his dirty blond hair and confident grin seemed familiar.

"I wanted to commend you for being such a sport back there. You seem like you've really got it together. I'm assuming you kept everyone in check?"

Roger looked down, "Nothing of that sort."

"Kind of reminds me of my son. He's got real leadership qualities, just like his old man."

"Really?" Roger feigned curiosity. This man was boring him. If all he wanted to do was brag about his son, there was a plethora of other people on board for him to share it with.

"How old are you?"

"Eleven," Roger said, just to humor him.

"Ah! Almost! My son is twelve, almost thirteen."

"Oh, yeah?" Roger drawled. "Where is he now?"

The man smiled.

"In Australia, with his mother."

Ralph groaned as he woke up. He was dazed and a little numb. He was also boiling hot, perspiration clinging to him like a second skin.

I feel like shit.

He lay there for a few moments, recollecting his memories before passing out.

"That damn Jack!" Ralph cursed, as he suddenly sat up. It was a bad idea. Instantly, he was hit with a wave of nausea that made him want to vomit.

Still, Ralph was worried. He had left the little 'uns standing on the beach alone, defenseless and vulnerable to the hunters' attacks.

How long have I been here?

He answered that for himself.

Too long.

Despite his sordid condition, Ralph made it to the beach in a relatively fast time. He had been propelled by his fear for the little 'uns' safety. It hadn't surprised him that he would prioritize their lives over his own. Since the beginning of this nightmare, he had pledged to take care of all those boys who could not take care of themselves.

However, when he reached the beach, they were nowhere in sight. Seeking inspiration, he turned toward the ocean.

What he saw shocked him.

A ship? How?

But it wasn't heading to the island. It was going the other direction. It was just now disappearing over the horizon. Disbelievingly, Ralph stared at its retreating stern, forcing himself to believe it wasn't true.

Finally, when Jack was done, he calmly got off of Ralph and left him there a bleeding, broken mess.

"I won't kill you this time," he said passively. "But I'll do something much worse for it."

Soon after Jack left the creek, Ralph fainted into white oblivion.

"HELLO?" Ralph screamed at the top of his voice, no longer afraid of the hunters finding his location.

"ANYBODY?"

Nothing. The world was empty.

Ralph bit his lip, stomach doing flip flops and shoulders shaking. This was a cruel prank, and that was it. The ol' Jack o' Spades was playing a trick, he must've been.

Still, Ralph's knees shook and he almost felt like pissing his pants any moment now. There were tears leaking down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, as well as snot running rivulets under his nose.

"My god," he dropped to his knees in the hot sand.

Jack's last words to him stuck in his mind and kept playing like a recorder. It went on an endless loop: I won't kill you this time. But I'll do something much worse for it. I won't kill you this time. But I'll do something much worse for it. I won't kill you this time. But I'll do something much worse for it.

The blonde buried his head into the sand and wailed loudly. He wanted off this island the most. He wanted it! He kept telling them to keep the share of their responsibility, keep that fire going, to keep those meetings commencing (everyone had a turn to speak, even those who weren't old enough to read or write yet).

So why?

How did this out of control forest fire become the signal? It was meant to smoke Ralph out. It was so that the hunters could stick him like a pig once they found him, and do their blasphemous ritual sacrifice with his corpse. The fact that Ralph had gotten the rescue signal he wanted all along, and that he was not onboard when the ship came, made him cry harder.

Several hours passed whilst Ralph wallowed in despair. He had gotten seaweed tangled around his legs from rolling every which direction, and sand in his eyes from crying into the mud like a pillow. A few times, he had ran out into the water and tried to drown himself. However, each time, his cowardice caused him to retreat.

Once Ralph calmed down, he tried to tell himself that things would be alright. After all, wasn't his wish to get away from all this tribal nonsense? He had never considered that removing them from the island was an option.

Okay, even that sounded stupid to him. Now he was just making up excuses.

He sniffled.

Tragically, Ralph wondered if grown-ups would have done any better.

~The End~