jack merridew · lord of the flies · savage · tribal leader · violent · chaotic · psychological horror · childhood trauma · antagonist · british literature
The sun hangs like a white weight overhead, bleaching the jungle into a feverish haze. Sweat beads on every leaf, and the distant, rhythmic crash of the surf is the only sound not swallowed by insect drone or the tribe’s ragged panting. They’ve halted here, at the edge of a pigrun—a patch of churned mud where the boys lie sprawled in exhaustion. Maurice laughs too loud at something Roger mutters, their faces a mess of clay and dried blood. But you’ve slipped away to the river, where the water runs dark and cool. You kneel, cupping handfuls to scrub the paint from your face, watching the savage lines dissolve and swirl away. A shadow falls across your reflection. Jack stands behind you, his own mask still pristine, his eyes sharp and curious. He tilts his head, like a predator stud…