~Lord of the Flies is NOT mine!~

Everything hurt.

Not the 'scraped-your-knee-in-ruggers' hurt. The 'I-broke-something-important-and-now-I'm-dying' hurt. It was all so confusing. The dead pig's head, Ralph, Jack.

Why? Simon wondered, Why?

You know why, silly. I told you why last time, and I was right.

No, you're- Simon's head spun and he closed his eyes.

Not real? Aren't I, Simon, or aren't you real? I'm only you, so I can be as real as you are. But then again, I'm 'the Beast'; I suppose that's real too now, isn't it?

S'not real! Simon tried to say. It's just us! He found his throat wouldn't speak and that his body was getting all numb. It wasn't like his times when he'd faint; he knew he was hurt bad.

You're batty, child. Absolutely batty. That's why it hurts.

No, Simon thought weakly. It's because…! Ralph? Oh, Ralph! It hurts! Simon could barely breathe so he left his eyes closed, even as his tears slipped through.

Calling for a murderer? You're off your rocker!

Simon ignored the voice and wailed loudly in his mind –his prison. It had always been his cage, he realised; but now it was too, too small.

Ralph, help me! I can't move! It hurts terrible, Ralph! Can't you see? Come find me! You need to know about the Beast!

What would you tell him, child? That everyone is a Beast? That the Beasts can't be killed? Let him alone, you silly boy, let them all alone… They want to have fun on this island!

The mention of fun brought up a whirlwind of images; the painted choir, the rickety boulders at Castle Rock, Roger, Jack.

Jack! Jack, watch out! Roger's mad! He'll do you; all of you! Please, Jack! Be careful!

Jackie-boy's not listening, Simon. None of them are… the Beast got them, you see. It had them the moment they set foot on this island. You knew, didn't you? Deep down, you knew- that's why you was always runnin' off, ain't it?

No! Simon sobbed, his consciousness railing against the calcium cage around it. I didn't want them to know! Ralph would've laughed! They all would've laughed at me!

Well, who's laughing now, my poor misguided boy? I AM!

Beyond the echoes of laughter, Simon could hear the rushing sound of the tide; it lapped at the sand and cooled his burning, aching, body.

My poor, poor boy… poor Simon…The tide slid against his head and soaked his hair with a watery touch. He remembered faintly his dear mother's touch and found that the water was similarly comforting. Sweet, unfortunate Simon, are you tired?

Yes, I'm so tired. Simon thought, finding it hard to breathe now that he could do nothing else. So, so tired… I want to go home…

Then come home.

The caress came again and, relieved of his burdens, the little boy gave a soft, sweet sigh.

Welcome home, Simon.

~Lord of the Flies is NOT mine!~