Chapter Text
The first adult Ralph had seen looked impossibly clean.
For one suspended moment, he could only stare. The man stood beside a small boat, his white uniform untouched by ash or blood, the gold on his cap catching the sunlight. Against the backdrop of smoke and flame, he looked unreal—as if from another world entirely. A world where shirts were still white. Where skin wasn't streaked with dirt and dried blood and streaky paint. Where people spoke instead of screamed.
Ralph's lungs burned and his muscles twitched, but he stayed stationary. His mind could not understand what his eyes were seeing.
An adult. The realization refused to settle. Instead, another thought crept into the hollow places of his mind. An angel? He faltered. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was all there was. Perhaps he had never escaped the hunt.
Jack's tribe had chased him through the burning jungle and cornered him on the beach, where there was no where left to hide. A spear had found it's mark, piercing his neck or heart. Somewhere underneath all the smoke, his body had fallen beside the others.
The boy with the birthmark.
Simon.
Piggy.
And now, Ralph.
He blinked wearily, his ears muffled and his vision clouded. He stumbled toward the angel in the boat. An agonizing pain shot up his injured leg—nearly folding him in half—throwing him back into clarity. Ralph heaved.
The thick smell of smoke, the glare of the sun, the sticky blood running down his skin, and the sweat on his back.
He was alive?
He peered at the 'angel' once more, who dissolved into a simple naval officer. A naval officer who was blatantly confused at the sight of a filthy, half-starved child stumbling out of the blaze. While, no, this man was not sent to escort him to Heaven, Ralph believed him an angel anyway. Angels rescued people. And he was rescued.
His vision blurred again, though whether from smoke or tears he couldn't tell. He painstakingly made his way to the officer. Left foot. Right foot. One step. Another. His knees buckles and he collapsed at the man's feet, convulsing with sobs.
Three months. Three months of fear, of pretending to be brave, of sleeping with one eye open. Three months of memories, of guilt, came pouring out of him in violent wails.
The officer kneeled to his level, appearing to be framed by the golden sun behind him. He began softly speaking to the fragile boy. "It's all right," the man was saying. Or perhaps it was, "You're safe now." Ralph couldn't tell. The words were swallowed by the ringing in his ears.
A cry pierced the peaceful atmosphere on the beach. Ralph's head snapped up and swiveled to see Jack's hunters tumbling out of the burning forest, spears clutched in their hands. He squeezed his eyes shut in resignation. They had found him, even with rescue standing right in front of him. These savages were going to kill him. Then they would kill the officer, bringing the mortalities to five.
The boy with the birthmark.
Simon.
Piggy.
Ralph.
The Naval officer.
His fingers curled into the hot sand. He took a final glimpse at his almost-savior's face, in which a solemn expression had been etched on. The seconds ticked on, but nothing happened. No cry of triumph, no pierce of a spear. Ralph risked a glance behind him. The hunters had stopped, framed by the smoke and ashes. For the first time in months, Ralph saw the other boys, not as 'savages' or 'hunters', but as just that. Boys.
Injured.
Thin.
Barefoot.
Sunburned.
Children.
The realization hit him hard, almost with as much force as Piggy's death had. Children. All of them. Jack's painted face couldn't hide how young he really was, his baby fat still clinging on to his face. Roger's spear looked absurd in hands that should have been holding schoolbooks.
Ralph picked himself up despite the protest of his body, and looked the officer in the eye, conveying more than words ever could.
Looking over the group, the officer began to notice the severity of the situation these children were in. Their bruised bodies held themselves in guarded positions, seemingly hiding behind the makeshift spears. Their faces were unable to be deciphered; each expression being disguised by the thick, unruly paint that was spread upon them.
He stilled at the scene. He still knew very little of what had happened-and he doubted anyone would ever fully know-but he knew something truly horrific had taken place, with these boys as the key pieces.
The man tried to ignore the unease that had settled deep in his chest, and began asking questions, which Ralph had recognized the same questions he had asked when Ralph had thrown himself on the beach like a child.
There was that word again. Child. He was a child. They all were. Did that change anything? Were the hunters still savage and guilty from the crimes they committed, or were those simply incidents, for they were young, naive, and troubled? Was Ralph any less guilty, with his heavy conscience? Did his guilt purify him? Did he have anything to be guilty of?
"How many of you are there?"
"Is anyone injured?"
"Are there any others?"
The officer's commanding voice shook him out of his internal crisis. The other boys, who had come to stand around him, were too shocked to answer properly.
"We're all injured..."
One boy whispered a number.
Another contradicted him.
"...twenty-eight..."
"...I don't know..."
"...they're dead..."
"...there were more..."
Different answers overlapped.
Some didn't answer at all.
"There were more?" The officer asked uneasily. No one answered. Ralph lowered his eyes. How could he—or anyone—exlain? How could you summarize what had happened?
How did you explain Simon?
Piggy?
The beast.
The dance.
The fire.
Jack.
Roger.
He couldn't; none of them could. So they simply stayed silent. The island stilled once more. The only sounds being the ones of the island itself: wind-rustled trees, the waves on the shore, the flapping of birds' wings. The island was quiet, but the boys' minds were far from it. Nature had begun to reclaim its silence, but the boys would never reclaim theirs.
For years to come, people would ask questions.
Parents.
Doctors.
Journalists.
Police.
They would search for explanations, for villains and heroes. The boys themselves could never truly answer those questions, for they did not know themselves. Standing there on the beach, surrounded by ash and saltwater. They only knew three things.
The island had changed them.
They will never be the same children who had crashed there, no matter how much they try to forget.
They were all guilty of the crimes committed on the island, whether they admitted it out loud or carried it alone in silence.