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a/n: if you've seen my bulletin you know lol. this was gonna become lost if i had to rewrite it so!!! i thought id post it here. this is my offering to the lotf fandom. stan piggy 4 LYFE !!!
edit: hi internet! i just submitted the final draft of this!! eek!! ill update with my score. i got 40/40 on the rough draft so i'm hoping for the best. also i had to switch to first person to meet the criteria lolz,, hope u guys don't mind! please let me know what u think!
edit 2: I GOT 100% YIPPEE!!!!!
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The cow morphed into a pig; the walls into the island. Long gone was the back room of the butcher’s shop. I smiled, feeling the thick face paint crease around my mouth and eyes. The hog, skewered on the spit, rotated evenly. Golden raindrops of fat sizzled in the fire. The other painted boys ate greedily, the skin around their mouths bare. The flames grew, engulfing the roast and spilling onto the grass. It licked and burned and roared until the entire scene drowned in white-hot light. Rough ocean waves hissed behind me, their salty scent tainted by iron. A gust of chilled air in my face rudely interrupted my reverie. I blinked several times, rubbing my eyes with the back of my wrists. The metallic walls offered no sympathy.
Where were the boys now? I avoided the others while in school, not daring to speak or even gaze in their direction. We were all stained– stained by mortal desire, stained by vile indulgence. To gaze into each other’s eyes was to acknowledge their time on the island; an unbearable feat. I knew, logically, that they were men now, perhaps with jobs and wives and children. But logic did not come easily to the heart. In mine, we were all still boys on the island.
Thursday mornings were never busy at the butcher’s. I watched a passersby shuffle past the clouded windows with mild disinterest. A familiar itch grew in the back of my throat, tickling the roof of my mouth. I flipped the front sign to ‘closed’ and decided to take a smoke break early. The back of the butcher’s shop was nothing special. Graffiti marred the red brick. Dandelions sprouted out of the cracked pavement. I leaned against a dumpster, unbothered by the scent of meat rotting in the July sun. I lit the cigarette, watching the flames eat away at the paper. Another reverie washed over me.
I was thirteen again, still volatile from my time on the island. Plagued by both insomnia and night terrors, I became accustomed to finding myself awake in the wee hours of the morning. I rolled over, wrapped in my comforter printed with rocket ships, but sleep would not bless me. Frustrated, I went to fetch a glass of water, or milk, or anything, really. I made my way through the winding halls of my childhood home. The ornamental rugs on the glossy spruce floors scratched against the pads of my feet. Precious vases, marbled with blue and white porcelain, sat on the intricately carved tables which lined the hallways. Portraits of long-dead relatives hung on the walls. Something in their painted eyes made me squirm. Is evil inherited? A feminine voice stopped me from descending the spiral staircase.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. We’ve tried everything, and he’s still– he’s still like that! I just miss my baby boy.” My mother cried. “Counseling is dreadfully costly, and it’s not doing him any good. I fear we may have to dip into his college fund if he keeps going.”
I recoiled at her words, crouching at the top of the stairwell like a hunter. Leaning forward, I continued to listen despite myself.“Then we’ll stop taking him,” my father said. “George mentioned something about a school for troubled youth. It would do Jack some good to make friends with boys like him.”
I grew bored– and hurt, but I’d never admit it– of eavesdropping on a clearly private conversation. I crept my way back to my bedroom. The window was open, bathing my room in pale blue light. I opened the mahogany drawer, noticing the dust collecting on my trophies that sat on top of it, and pulled out a lumpy handkerchief. I opened the fabric with a melancholic gentleness. Inside were Piggy’s specs, with only one lens remaining. Clutching the specs to my chest, I wormed my way back under my blankets. A loose tear rolled down my cheek. Several more followed. I wept for Piggy’s untimely demise– and the fact that I never bothered to learn his real name.
Morning faded into a lazy afternoon. I scrutinized the storefront, scowling at the peeling white paint, the cracked linoleum floors, and the flickering fluorescent lights that doubled as an insect graveyard. I ought to hire a repairman– and a cleaner, and an exterminator– but then again, the imperfect perfection made it Jack's. Not Mathew’s or Randy’s or Ted’s. It wouldn’t be my shop if it wasn’t at least a little messy. I sat by the counter for a long while, twirling a loose ginger curl around my finger, when I heard the door chime.
Ah. My face softened as I caught a glimpse of her tailored purple jacket. I awkwardly made my way to the back to avoid looking at her frustratingly sweet face– and to avoid my face turning bright pink in embarrassment.
Her silvery voice echoed from the front. “Just the usual, Jackie!” God, Jackie. I hated how much I loved being called ‘Jackie’ by her. It was so innocent, so unaccusing. An outward display of all the tender affection nestled inside her. She was the loveliest flower I ever saw, but if I made a move– if I went out and picked her and took her home to put in a nice glass vase– she’d wither away. My clumsy mortal hands would corrupt her, somehow. Ruin her. She ought to bloom in peace. I sliced her lamb chops in silence and tried to not think about her laughing green eyes.
I returned to the counter with a small paper parcel. When she fished her wallet out of her purse, I stammered hurriedly, “It’s– it’s on the house. Just for you.”
Her face brightened in pleased awe. “Really? Oh, thank you very much! Here,” she pulled a small piece of paper from her purse, “I’m going to a charity gala next Saturday. It’s custom to bring a plus-one, so…” Her eyes sparkled with a coy whimsy. “If you’re interested, give me a ring.”
Before I could get a word in, she hurried out of the shop, her feathered black hair swishing around her long neck. Was that… a date? Had she just asked me on a date? I thumbed the paper she gave me– a textured lavender calling card with the name ‘Nora E. Gillingham’ etched into the card stock. Nora. I savored her name– it was perfect, neither boring nor silly. I could have stayed in that moment forever, carefully tracing her name with my finger while breathing in the remnants of her orange blossom perfume, when I heard the door chime again.
I looked up sharply and stuffed the card in my back pocket. The man standing at the door was a tad shorter than me, with a certain heaviness about the shoulders. Wandering fingers ran through his cropped blond hair. As he stepped closer, I noticed a certain mildness in his expression–
It was Ralph. That Ralph. Coming to my butcher shop, of all places? If the floor just so happened to gain a consciousness and swallow me alive, I wouldn’t mind one bit. I failed to feign indifference with a plain, “What can I get started for you?”
Ralph squinted at the laminated menu. “Erm, the honey baked ham will do, thanks.”I forced myself to walk casually into the back room. Inhaling the frigid air– with a boost of confidence from Nora’s invitation– I called out, “Good choice, yeah? I’m usually sold out at this time.”
A pregnant pause. The sweat on my brow froze. I waited in a kind of polite purgatory.
“Yeah. It’s for the missus. We’re having a housewarming party. Get to know everyone, right?”
I came back to the counter. “This is a crowd-pleaser. The guests’ll love it, promise.” For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have to force a smile. Ralph ran his fingers through his hair again– a habit he never seemed to drop. “You should swing round. Meet Caroline and the baby, yeah? She’d be happy to host an old school-friend of mine.”
Ralph’s spontaneous hospitality had me nearly choking on my own breath. “Ye-yes! Of course! When?”
“It’ll start at six next Friday.”
The delicious prospect of a dinner party far outweighed having to close the shop early– and lose three sales at the most. “I’ll be there.”
With parcel in hand, Ralph made his exit. “Night, Jack!” he called from the doorway.
I inhaled the cool night air greedily. Night air was better, somehow. Cleaner. More refreshing. I looked up as I began to walk home. The sky, blanketed in an infinite mixture of smog and clouds, seemed utterly starless. There used to be hundreds of stars when I was a boy– staying up far past curfew to soak in the pure majesty of the atmosphere. But now, ever since England became more industrialized, I’d be lucky to see just one. The universe somehow heard my plea, and let a singular white dot shine through the blanket. It glimmered modestly. I smiled for a second time that night.
Stepping into my pitiful flat, I realized I’d neglected my place for far too long. It needed a good cleaning– and a visit from the electrician, and an exterminator. Shameful holes in the walls, the shape of my fists, disrupted the drywall. I added a trip to the hardware store to my mental ‘to-do’ list. Shambling around in the dark, I clumsily searched my drawers for something decent to wear to the gala. Alas, I had neglected my wardrobe, too. Another trip was added to the– now ever-growing– list.
My throat itched again. I needed a smoke. For all my complaints about my flat, at least it had a balcony. Granted, not a great balcony. It was hardly up-to-code. The cold black metal creaked whenever I moved, and the paisley-etched rails shook noisily in the wind– hollow steel clanging about. I lit the cigarette, watching its thin line of smoke disappear in the air. I absently took Nora’s calling card out of my back pocket and thumbed the etched letters.
Perhaps things would turn out alright.
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