Jack Merridew

In the celebration of the didactic nature of Lord of The Flies, Jack experiences a lesson taught by what is inside him: the notion of savagery. This is another piece for school and the choice of novel was nonnegotiable. As always, enjoy. 

The crunch of gravel beneath every footstep rang out across the courtyard in precise repetition; a sickening heartbeat. The steps suddenly quickened and fell into patterns. I observed them with a keen eye. Soldiers of such a caliber still bore furrowed brows and pursed lips, swaying in the heat.

“Halt!” I yelled, thrusting a salute skyward.

The body of men stamped to a standstill and peered onwards, returning the salute in unison. Each face was an emotionless slate, the weathered textile of their hand-me-downs from those who’d gone before dimmed their fresh complexions. Each man was brand new. I was prepared to teach them a thing or two. I was their leader.
The tension snapped in the air between us as I stepped up to a soldier. We stared each other dead in the eyes. A small twitch coursed through his upper lip and he clenched his fists. He was a fidgiter, that would be no good – I could tell. Only the most diligent are suited for such an exercise. I examined the faces and selected one with a stern hand.

“Johnson, at ease!” I barked.

The sudden clap of noise made him jump. He raised a hand to sweep the fringe from his face. He was never destined to graduate, but somehow the cards played in his favour. A pitiful excuse for a male; the results of his cardio fitness reflected that. Despite this, his intelligence stunned us all and it was something I couldn’t quite lay my finger on. Intuition was scarce in a profession for the physically capable, but somehow Johnson had that spark. He was unreal. For the very reason that the exercise intends to demonstrate dominance over the opponent, he would certainly pose no threat. The kid clearly had never fought in his life. I smirked and beckoned to him, invited him forward. The others craned their necks to get a good look. We faced each other in a limbo between angry silence and expectancy.

“What I’m going to demonstrate to you all is essential, vital, in melee combat.”

He was preparing for me. I gave him no time. With a quick swoop, my fist struck him square in the chest and threw off his balance, giving me adequate time to strike again. He tried in vain to recollect, but I forced his shoulder sideways with a heavy palm and swung him over. Adrenalin surged through me as his hands clawed feebly at the dirt beneath him and he cried out, only to take another hit to the abdomen. His eyes bulged. I clenched my thighs as I pinned him down and forced a firm grip on his neck. I stared, searching for the light in his eyes.

“Kill the beast, cut his throat, spill its blood!”

It echoed in the pit of my mind when our eyes connected and an overwhelming sickness replaced the energy which spiked my veins moments ago. A memory surfaced, which I failed to compartmentalize. I saw the flames dancing in the centre, throwing shadows upon the ground. I heard the cry for innocence drowned in the chants of the tribe. I felt the blood on my hands and I felt the power inside me.

Then, the silence came.

And I heard Simon.

~Holly