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He fell from the cliff, down to the luminescent waters, waves splashing and playing as if nothing were the matter at all. Simon’s body hit the ground with a dull thud, his breathing so quiet that none of them went to investigate any further.
They had killed the beast; they had done it. It was over. There was nothing to fear any longer. The island was good once more, and peace was restored.
Or that’s what they had thought. Simon took in a ragged breath, gasping for air that he could not take in. Every part of his body burned , ached , stung , the dull pain he had initially felt morphing into excruciating agony.
He could smell nothing but iron, the metallic scent gouged into his nostrils and suffocating him; the aroma of the ocean waters indiscernible from it. He could not move, for every small jolt or twitch or spasm seemed to only make things worse.
He glanced down with only his eyes, trying, needing to see what had happened. Why did everything hurt so much? Why did it burn? Why, oh God, why couldn’t he breathe?
Simon was met with gore, his body covered in gashes and deep wounds from the boys’ spears, blood trickling and pouring out at a far too rapid pace. His chest was torn open, his ribcage ever so slightly visible in between the layers of tissue and broken apart dark skin.
He could see his heart beating, ever so rapidly, trying so hard to keep this body alive, to let him see another day. Simon felt some hot moisture trickling down his cheeks at the sight.
His vision was getting hazy. Everything was blurry. He couldn’t tell why. Tears? Was it just foggy? Was he having another episode?
The young boy could hear the rest of the boys' distant whooping and cheering, laughter and shouting drowned out by the noise of his heart pounding.
Ralph. Ralph was a part of this, wasn’t he?
No.. No, he couldn’t have been. Ralph wouldn’t.. He couldn’t. He could believe Jack doing something like this, sure. He was a hunter, after all. It was what he was made for.
But Ralph? The chief? The leader? The boy he’d been the closest to, trusted the most, felt the safest with?
…
It wasn’t his fault.
He must have been.. Taken over by some feeling. Something inescapable. Something innate in all of them.
Ralph couldn’t be to blame. Not solely.
After all, this was nobody but Simon’s fault alone. He was warned. He was told by the head of the pig, the Lord of the Flies, that this would happen. That they would kill him. Hurt him. Treat him as something that was other.
Of course, why would he listen? He found the idea silly. The other boys wouldn’t have just done something like that. Sure, they may have killed those pigs, but that was only for food. Who knows where they would be without the hunters.
But on the one day in his whole life where Simon didn’t simply meekly obey any task or command, he was maimed for it. He should have listened. He should have taken its words to heart. He should have thought beforehand. Before acting rashly.
Simon coughed, crimson spilling out of his parted lips. It was getting harder to breathe, the blood gurgling in his throat as he gasped and choked.
He had to get up. To tell them the truth. That he was no beast, that there was no beast in the first place. It was just a dead pilot. That’s all it was..
He weakly cried out as he wearily sat up, feeling as if he were burning alive at that very second. He had to get to Ralph, to Jack, to anyone. He would even take a littlun if it meant they’d know the truth. If he couldn't save himself, at the very least, he had to save them from themselves.
The ravenette could by no means walk, dragging himself on the sand, his blood staining it, the miniscule rocks getting into every crevice of every laceration, only causing his tears to fall faster.
The maroon flowed from him, Simon becoming a fountain of it, saying, ‘take, take, take, drink as much as you desire’ to the salty tide.
He was growing more and more feeble, unable to properly hold himself up. The back of a fair headed boy in the distance caught his attention, a broken, gurgled sob tearing from his throat.
Simon collapsed to the ground, his breathing shallow, rapid, unsteady. He kept his eyes on the other boy, hoping, praying that he would just turn around.
“R–alph…” he croaked so quietly, his lungs so full of ichor he could no longer breathe in any more than he already so desperately tried to. Simon’s arm reached out for him, helpless and pleading.
His vision faded to darkness, his last sight being Ralph’s head turning towards him.
A moment far too late.