Dear Auntie, it’s Piggy here, or at least, it would be if this letter could ever reach you from this forsaken island. When we first crashed here, despite my initial worries, I couldn’t deny the island’s deceptive beauty. Crystal-clear waters met shores of soft sand, and the tropical palms swayed in the breeze. It seemed idyllic, but appearances, as I soon learned, can be devastatingly misleading. From the moment we landed, a silent prayer for rescue became a constant hum in my mind, a stark contrast to the growing chaos around us.
Ralph was the first boy I properly met, seemed decent enough at first, around my age, fair-haired and with a kind of quiet authority. He even got voted as leader, which seemed like a good thing then. He found this conch shell, and it became our symbol of order, whoever held it could speak. It felt like we were trying to build a society, a little version of grown-up life. We even made rules, about the fire, about shelters, about keeping things civilized until we got rescued. But it didn’t take long for things to unravel, and for me, Piggy, to see just how fragile our hope was.
It was Jack who started it, really. From the beginning, he was more interested in hunting than rescue, in power than in planning. He challenged Ralph at every turn, especially about the importance of the fire. You see, Auntie, my glasses, the ones you know I’ve worn since I was little, became really important. They were the only way we could start a fire, our signal for rescue. Ralph understood this, I understood this, but Jack and his lot, they just saw them as a tool, something to be grabbed and used.
Jack, with his choir boys, they were supposed to be responsible for the fire, but hunting became their obsession. The fire, our only hope, dwindled, and with it, our chances of being seen, of being saved. He talked about hunting pigs, about blood, about the thrill of the chase. It was like something primal took over him, and slowly, it spread to the others.
Ralph tried to hold onto order, using the conch to call meetings, to remind everyone of the rules, of civilization. But Jack became increasingly dismissive, using the conch only when it suited him. His initial interest in rules and order vanished quickly, replaced by a disregard for the fire and any collective improvement for survival. He started to pull boys away, promising them hunts and excitement, appealing to something darker in them. Soon, the group fractured. It was Ralph, me, and Sam’nEric left trying to maintain some sense of order. Even Sam’nEric, eventually, were tempted away by Jack’s tribe. It became horribly clear: Jack craved power, pure and simple.
I try to rationalize Simon’s death, to think it was an accident, a terrible mistake. I want to believe he wasn’t deliberately murdered. Maybe we all panicked, caught up in the frenzy after he stumbled out of the jungle in the dark. But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that Jack orchestrated it, that his hunger for control had reached a terrifying peak. That night, watching the boys turn into a savage mob, something snapped. Everything spiralled downwards because of Jack. Every wrong turn, every descent into barbarity, traced back to him. He led them all into savagery, and it went too far, Auntie, horrifically too far. Simon’s brutal, animalistic murder ripped away the last shreds of civilized order on that island. Savagery had completely taken over. All the boys in Jack’s tribe, they became inhuman, driven by primal instincts. It’s all because of him and the monster he unleashed within them, and perhaps, within us all.
My glasses, Auntie, remember them? Since I was three, I’ve needed them to see. They were probably the only reason some boys didn’t completely exclude me at first. They were a symbol, I suppose, of my reliance on reason, on clear sight in a world that was fast becoming blurry and brutal.
