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Cowardice	By : saucyminion Category: G through L > Lord of the Flies Views: 17461 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Part Four—A Letter

    Ralph blinked himself back to complete consciousness of the present.
    “Sir,” droned a nasal voice behind him. He turned to see a beak-nosed sales boy standing behind him with a terribly annoyed look on his face. “Can I help you with something?”
    Ralph looked down to the sales boy who barely came up to his chin, and again back to the model cruiser in the shop window. He took the opportunity to glance around himself and recall where he was, and where he was going.
    “Sir, please. You can’t stand here all day, that’s loitering, and you make people not want to come into the shop.”
    Yes, the shop. It was the hobby shop on the corner a block from Ralph’s flat. He was on his way back from the market where he had been not so unexpectedly let go from his job, to put it kindly. He was passing by the hobby shop when he’d spotted a familiar model ship in the display window, and had been taken up in a swoon of bitter memories. How long had it been since the last such occurrence? A day? A week? Time was beginning to erode the memories. And now, how long had he been standing here on the sidewalk? If he hadn’t pawned his pocket watch he’d have checked the time. Instead, he picked up his feet and carried himself around the bend before his ears would have to withstand anymore of the shrill questions that came out of the young sales boy.
    Ralph’s flat was relatively empty, stale smelling, and dim with only a few spots of muted light soaking through the yellowed curtains. A small fan whirred and rattled in the corner to circulate the humid air, but surely all it really did was make noise. The residence was small enough that the two windows in the sitting area provided enough light for the kitchen and what could have been called a bedroom; a futon pushed against a far wall towards the back of the flat.
    The futon was looking quite soft and lovely to him at that moment as he kicked off his shoes. He made his way to the unmade bed and lay himself down. For some reason, he didn’t feel the relief of resting his tired body against the spring mattress after a long day. The foam pillow against the back of his head gave him little comfort. The tiny squeaking springs annoyed him.
    The fan hummed lowly and came to a stop. No doubt in need of repair.
    Ralph knew how that felt. Mentally and physically he was sore and tired. He needed a bath, a haircut, and bandages for his blistered, overworked hands. He needed someone to talk to, a book to read, and a break in the routine. A cold glass of water would refresh him nicely—he knew he was dehydrated because his throat hurt, his mouth was dry, and his thoughts were fuzzy and fragmented. Ralph had broken his last drinking glass the night before. Drinking from bloodied hands lacked simple dignity. He could not even refresh himself like a civilized human being.
    Yes, he was broken and, like his fan, in need of repair. But unlike him, the simple electrical device had a purpose. What would Ralph do if he could fix himself? If he cleaned up, watered his self, and mended his psychological bruises, then what?
    After a long moment of utter, sour stillness, Ralph finally reached back and pulled the unfluffed pillow from beneath his head and let his heavy skull fall back against the mattress. He held the pillow a couple of feet above his face and noted the temporary wet tear stains on the cover. He had been crying, but he didn’t feel like he had been. He felt nothing—only a distant, droning ache in the back of his mind, and it had been there for some time.
   Last week, the newspaper had talked about a prison inmate who had smothered himself with a pillow in his cell. His suicide note had crudely stated that it was his only escape from his mistreatment and confinement he faced every day. At least, though Ralph, the inmate knew that someone would find his letter. Ralph had thought about what he might write a couple of times before remembering that he had no one left who would find such a letter. No family, no friends, no lover. He didn’t even have a goldfish to depend on him. He was merely a tiny stain in society that would be washed out in time, with nothing to offer and nothing to take.
    Ralph told himself that death would be a great relief, but in his last sighing breaths before lowering the pillow to his face, he allowed himself a tiny thought of desperation. It was the abstract idea that someone who loved him would wish to see him live, because to even just one person, he was not wonderful, not significant, but simply worth being for one reason or another. He almost laughed at that thought, but that would mean taking a breath.
    He pushed down. The pressure hurt his nose, but he knew that wouldn’t last long.
    The rattle and scrape of his rusted mail slot startled him and made his heart skip. He didn’t even realize at first that he had taken the pillow away from his face to glance at his door. An envelope lay on the floor in a tiny patch of dim light, and he heard the mail boy’s soft footsteps pad down the hall until there was only silence again. He was not upset having been interrupted.
    What was in the letter? A bill for his rent, most likely. But what if it wasn’t? Perhaps he had won some money. Perhaps it was his mother writing to say she would take him back. Perhaps it was simply someone else’s mail that had been mistakenly delivered to his apartment. Whatever it was, he soon decided that whatever that envelope held was more promising than his pillow. If he didn’t like what the envelope, then he could always just kill himself, he thought with slight amusement.
    Ralph didn’t realize how much he had been shaking until he stood up on quivering legs to go to the front door. When he reached the letter he picked it up and dropped it again in an instant. Without being able to imagine what the letter was doing in his home, he let himself sit down on the floor, but did not reach again for the envelope.
    Scribbled in black ink at the top of the return address was “Jack Merridew.”
    Perhaps suffocation had been the better route after all.
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