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Roger sat on the ground of the forest, cradling his leg as he bit his lip. His teeth sunk into his own flesh, and he could taste the sharp, bitter taste of blood. It was no longer sweet, and he no longer craved it like he used to. It was far too salty, far too warm, and it made him want to throw up. He gulped, not being able to feel the pain that had shot up his leg moments ago. It had hurt, it really had, but now it was just numb. He risked a glance, and now he actually threw up.
The foot was twisted at an odd angle, looking simply wrong. The bone jutted out, breaking through the skin, and blood seeped upon the forest floor, dark and wet. His leg was coated in the liquid, ruby red and disgusting, running down his skin. He tore his eyes away from it, refusing to even risk another peek. He instead chose to stare at the sky, currently billowing with dark grey smoke.
He laughed to himself through the tears that now dug into the cut on his lip, stinging. How couldn't he laugh? It was funny, really. They were all so stupid. Jack, Ralph, Piggy, even himself. So stupid.
Because it had worked, at the start. The fire was set, it provided safety and hope, there were shelters, there was structure, there was happiness and excitement. But Roger couldn't bring himself to miss it. It was impossible. The warm waters of the bathing pool just couldn't compare to the rush of blood under your hands when you dug them into fur, the snarling and gnashing of teeth as the life faded from the beady eyes of a pig. The feeling of control as someone cowered below you, eyes wide and shivering.
That's what he would miss.
He laughed again, more bitter now. He was going to die. There was no escaping it, no running from it. He was stuck in a forest, bleeding heavily and surrounded by a blaze of fire that he had helped start. He was going to die alone. He wasn't surprised by that, of course, he had done everything alone. He had been alone his whole life, why should death be different?
The forest was silent now, save for the sound of fire crackling nearby twigs, the strain of his breath. The animals had left, the others had left, Ralph was probably dead. He smiled a bit at the thought. He really was missing out. He looked over at his spear that lay beside him, stained with already spilled blood from both the pigs and himself, from Sam and Eric and other littluns that had suffered under him. The wood was beautiful. The spear was beautiful.
He was going to miss that.
And as he thought of Ralph screaming, as he imagined his head hanging limply on a stick, those blue eyes lifeless and blank, dreams of a normal life gone, it finally set in. It really, truly did.
Roger was going to die.
He shook as he realized it, he could feel his face lose all blood. His eyes widened comically, his jaw dropped, his head swarmed with thoughts like bees to a hive, or like flies to flesh. The honey-like blood dripped from his foot, gushing like a creek. The heat of the fire touched his skin, the flames delicately licking the leaves and turning them to ash. They hissed and fizzed as they died, and Roger found himself wondering if his bones would do the same.
He was going to die alone. Jack wasn't here to help him, Maurice wasn't here to make some dumb joke and lighten the mood. Ralph wasn't here to save the day, Piggy was gone and could no longer devise a plan. Simon was dead, his blood staining the shore, and he could no longer be comforted. He was alone. Truly, simply, alone. He hated it.
So Roger did what his brain told him to do. He cried. He sobbed. He shook as tears streamed down his face, hot, shameful, burning into his skin as they dripped down his face and washed away the stupid paint that coated his cheeks. He cried as he grabbed onto his leg and watched the blood pour steadily, looked at the pearly white of the bone that protruded from his body, and just let himself go. He had been holding it in for too long, his whole life, he had never released emotion in such a wave before. It felt nice, it was comforting.
He sniffled, wiping his nose. He was being so childish. But, that didn't stop him from crying. He was dead anyways. He was alone. No one would know. Maybe he'd be remembered in a good way. Maybe they'd forget what he'd done. Maybe they'd have a funeral, and flowers would line a coffin that was empty, and it would be lowered into the dirt. Maybe the choir would sing for him in their perfect voices, maybe they'd cry. Maybe someone would miss him.
Probably not.
He couldn't stop, now. His breath was panting and panicky, he looked around desperately, the fire creeping closer and closer. The blood was so hot, so sticky, so awful as it dripped and pooled that he shuddered and cringed away from it. His heart was racing, thumping louder and louder in his chest, and now he was screaming as he cried. They were screams of desperation, loss, panic. They weren't even coherent, they were just cries for help to an empty island, and empty world. He was alone, he'd die alone, all by himself in this stupid forest, and it was all his fault-
Something flickered in front of him.
Roger looked up, blinking through teary eyes. Was he losing it? He could've sworn something was there, maybe someone kneeling before him. It was clear as day, yet he couldn't place it. He must be batty. Maybe this is what happened before you died, you just went crazy and starting seeing weird things that aren't there. At least it was better than nothing.
The thing flickered again, and Roger was now fixed to the spot, his eyes still spilling with tears, and he tilted his head, waiting. Something was happening, he could feel it. A chill ran up his spine, cold, and his heart beat even faster, thumping in his ears. He could hear his blood rush, the fire roar, and then-
Simon.
Simon sat before him, kneeling on the ground, looking calm and relaxed. His eyes were warm, and forgiving, and sad. He gave Roger a small, nervous smile, the way Simon always used to do. He looked happy, healthy, and a small blush was in his cheeks. He looked alive. He still carried the same friendliness that radiated off of him, the feeling of safety and love. Roger wiped away a tear quickly, and Simon looked him dead in the eyes.
"I suppose you're here to tell me off before I go?" Roger laughed, but it was humorless. Simon was silent, and just stared at Roger. Roger could feel panic again, bubbling up more and more, and Simon was looking at his mangled, gory leg. He winced in sympathy, and when he looked up at Roger, he was crying too.
"I'm sorry." Simon whispered, and it was genuine. His voice was like honey, dripping, smooth, warm. Roger squinted at him, and he bit his lip once more, the blood welling up. He too looked down at his leg, and then back at Simon.
"For?" Roger asked, and his voice was quiet, the words barely leaving his lips. Simon just looked up once more, shaking, and his eyes were fearful.
"This." He gestured towards the leg, and looked down at the ground, looking anywhere but Roger. Roger frowned.
"Huh?" He asked, and Simon just shook his head wildly, taking a deep breath.
"This. It was my fault. I tripped you."
Roger recoiled in shock, surprised. He remembered the moment he tripped, he was chasing Ralph, caught up in the feeling of bloodlust and needing, when it caught his foot. He had thought it was a root or something, thought he was just unlucky. But as he looked around, the ground was even and grassy, no roots or branches in sight.
Roger looked back up, and their eyes met once more.
"You?" He muttered.
Simon was trembling, and his voice quavered as he spoke. "I'm so sorry Roger. It was the only way." Simon then crawled over to him, and sat at his side. Roger could feel the spirit rippling off of him, warm and inviting. He sighed, and Roger found his mind filling with a million questions.
"Why?" He decided upon, and Simon's brow furrowed before he answered.
"You would've killed him. I made a promise." Simon said, and his forest eyes were reflecting the approaching flames that destroyed all in their path, and the heat was reaching Roger now, and the smoke was clouding his vision, and he could barely see anything but Simon who stood out against it all.
"Okay." Roger smiled.
"Okay?" Simon's tone was questioning.
"Okay. I get it. Fair is fair." He then laughed a bit. "I kill you, you kill me."
Simon flinched harshly, and Roger wondered if he had said something wrong, and then Simon was giggling beside him, wiping away a stray tear with his hand. The corners of his lips were pulled up into a wide smile, and he looked at Roger, not a shred of hatred in his gaze.
"Are you ready now, Roger?" Simon asked. Roger looked at him, his gaze full of questioning. Simon had his hand out, his arm stretched, his eyes searching Roger's, and the choice was easy. Simple.
Roger took his hand, and the warmth exploded within him, and everything was okay.
Because that day, Roger wasn't alone.