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Description
The boy with fair hair lowered himself onto the white tiles and began to reach out and pull his knees towards himself with shaky hands. Though he had to bite his lips down to stop himself from shaking and the almost mirror like tiles reflected his desperation and fear, behind his bewildered eyes, one can find a hint of his old charisma. All around him the emptiness of the white room was suffocating him. His eyes shifted nervously around, his sight bouncing off the blank walls onto the too-clean tiles, the mirrors on the floor, leaving no trace, and to elsewhere again. His eyes desperately prowled the place for an escape, but he found none. As if unable to take the place anymore, the boy let out a small strangled cry; his cry was echoed by another.
"Ralph!" it said.
Then the world pulls back into focus, the commotion made its way to the fair boy.
"Ralph, Ralph!" it spoke again.
The fair boy jerked up his head slightly, his lips moved slowly, as if to say something, but nothing came out.
The voice spoke again.
"Ralph, Ralph? I can hardly believe this! What has happened to you?"
The owner of the voice came out behind the fair boy and waved a fat palm in front of the his face. That completely tugged him back into reality. Ralph pushed himself off the ground, his eyes slowly filled up with the old confidence as he turned towards the owner of the voice.
"Piggy?" He recognized, his voice then rising into surprise, "You're back, but you were dead?"
"---Yes, I'm not sure how they did this, but I think they call it resurrection; the act of rising from the dead. Jesus resurrected from the dead,  the capital resurrection was used to describe that particular incident-- I- I guess it is a real rare thing to happen, and I--"
Ralph doesn't seem to be listening. Instead, his eyes are focused on a spot on Piggy's face. His brows furrowed, deep in thought.
"Piggy, that scar, is that from the- the" he faltered a moment, but forced himself to utter the words, "the rock?"
"Scar?" Piggy blinked behind his thick specs. Questioning, he reached up for his head and ran his finger along the long scar that now stretched from the back of his head a long way down to his forehead. "Oh." Unable to say much, he echoed the furrow of the brows.
It didn't take him long to recover, as he soon started again. "I can't remember much.." his round face scrunched up as he struggled to recall, "I think I fall, something split open, and something escaped me, leaked out, I think. Then everything went black.." He jolted with sudden realization, "My specs!" Meaty hands flew up to the spectacles on the bridge of his small round nose, he sighed in relief. "I-I," he was so close to starting again but both are suddenly aware of the presence of a third figure.
The frantic returned in Ralph for a moment, quite a brief one, in fact, before brightening up at the recognition of the small dark figure.
"Simon!" he exclaimed in delight. "You are alive too? Then, then, maybe none of you died, and this- this-" The bewildered look gradually returned; a dumb smile was plastered on his face. But as he struggled with the ideal, he was soon forced back into reality by a glimpse of the scar, and and of the pieces of Simon's flesh that couldn't quite attach themselves properly.
Simon was paying attention to none of that. He rushed over and tugged on Ralph's hand, frantically  trying to say something. "Ralph, Ralph! The beast- the beast! There is no beast, it is only a dead body, and parachute, para--"
"Man, those are some damn gruesome kids."
A male's voice coldly sliced into the moment of truth. One that belongs to a man who looks ironically, quite reliable. A good man, even.
The man's uneasiness was covered by a frown, and shielded by  visible grumpiness. In fact, he longed for the familiar rifle. The one that he knows too well about. He carried that gun to work everyday, but now that he doesn't have it with him, he felt-- strange-- almost uneasy. Now that there are abnormally gruesome children in the room with him, that feeling only multiplies.
"John Proctor!"
Oh how his longings for the gun grew.
Proctor directed his attention towards the old reverend with much unwillingness.
"John Proctor!" The reverend exclaims yet again. "But how?"
Proctor's face might've twitched slightly in distaste, but the longing had grew to be so much that he doesn't realize the that.
And there, suddenly, he felt the familiar grip in his hand. Solid friendliness in his palm.

Overcame by his annoyance, Proctor seized the chance. For he might not get another. He quickly raised his rifle and made a well rounded hole right in the center of the old reverend's wide forehead, a forehead so bare that it looks like a weakness. Up for grabs, for anyone to shoot. And Proctor made his shot right in the center, as if he has been practicing for so long, only for that moment.
Droplets of red hue seeped out of the well rounded hole, and soon the reverend collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. The red liquid bubbled when the old man gasped for a few more breaths, but he was quickly ignored.
"Proctor!"  He glanced over towards the source when he heard his name being exclaimed yet again, and there stood another reverend. "Why? That's Mr. Parris..?" The comment dragged on to become a questioning, for even the reverend doubts that Proctor has no reason at all to shoot Parris.
His attention was soon redirected towards the small group of children, dumbstruck, and staring back at him.
"Hale.." Proctor said reluctantly, in slight distaste.
"What children!" The reverend exclaimed once again. "Pray you!" Hale said, rushing over in small frantic steps. "Confess to me-" Proctor frowned slightly-"Who did such things to you children?" He asked, squatting down to the same level as them in an attempt to reduce their visible discomfort.
Both Simon and Piggy turned to Ralph as the fair boy stepped out with the obligation of a chief. The look in the Ralph's eyes slowly settled into ones with more confidence before he started to speak.
"Our plane crashed," He started slowly as he struggled to remember the agonizing events. "There weren't any grown ups."
"Fun and games." Proctor commented, and then recieved a look of disapproval from Hale.
"It was like that at first," Said Ralph, "before things---"
He stopped.
Making up his mind, he started again. "I was chief. I was, was--" He struggled to find the word, to continue.
"Voted." Piggy offered.
"Yes, voted chief. I was voted chief." Ralph continued, easily finding the words, more like the words flowed freely out of him. The natural charisma was put back into act. "But then Jack started to ask the hunters-- the choir, to join his tribe, and then, then-" Ralph faltered.
"Simon was k-killed, mistaken for the beast, and Piggy, rock, r-rock, rock--" Ralph is stuck.
"And I think a rock hit me, I'm not sure though. I think I'm supposed to be dead." Piggy happily took over and explained a matter of factly while Simon patted Ralph in concern.
"And an American soldier saved us, took us away. I never saw Jack, never saw them again." Ralph ended, feeling the same obligation to end things.
"So who is this Jack I keep hearing about?" Proctor asked, growing interested in the kids.
"Jack, that Jack Merridew! Oh he thinks he's chief, always hunting.." Piggy started to answer without the conch. He was infuriated by the thoughts of Jack Merridew. "He took my specs too! He thinks that he could just steal my specs, and our fire and --"
And Piggy, as one to be interrupting people, he was interrupted too. By a blood curdling scream, he was. It was from a girl, no older than eighteen, who was on her bottom, scrambling towards Proctor on all fours.
"Mary Warren!" Proctor exclaimed in surprise.
"Abby! Abby, don't! Abby, I'm not going to hurt you more!" Mary Warren cried. She is backing away from a stunningly beautiful girl, who is none other but Abigail Williams.

And beside her stood a red haired boy. One who bears the name of Jack Merridew.

Description
The boy with fair hair lowered himself onto the white tiles and began to reach out and pull his knees towards himself with shaky hands. Though he had to bite his lips down to stop himself from shaking and the almost mirror like tiles reflected his desperation and fear, behind his bewildered eyes, one can find a hint of his old charisma. All around him the emptiness of the white room was suffocating him. His eyes shifted nervously around, his sight bouncing off the blank walls onto the too-clean tiles, the mirrors on the floor, leaving no trace, and to elsewhere again. His eyes desperately prowled the place for an escape, but he found none. As if unable to take the place anymore, the boy let out a small strangled cry; his cry was echoed by another.
"Ralph!" it said.
Then the world pulls back into focus, the commotion made its way to the fair boy.
"Ralph, Ralph!" it spoke again.
The fair boy jerked up his head slightly, his lips moved slowly, as if to say something, but nothing came out.
The voice spoke again.
"Ralph, Ralph? I can hardly believe this! What has happened to you?"
The owner of the voice came out behind the fair boy and waved a fat palm in front of the his face. That completely tugged him back into reality. Ralph pushed himself off the ground, his eyes slowly filled up with the old confidence as he turned towards the owner of the voice.
"Piggy?" He recognized, his voice then rising into surprise, "You're back, but you were dead?"
"---Yes, I'm not sure how they did this, but I think they call it resurrection; the act of rising from the dead. Jesus resurrected from the dead,  the capital resurrection was used to describe that particular incident-- I- I guess it is a real rare thing to happen, and I--"
Ralph doesn't seem to be listening. Instead, his eyes are focused on a spot on Piggy's face. His brows furrowed, deep in thought.
"Piggy, that scar, is that from the- the" he faltered a moment, but forced himself to utter the words, "the rock?"
"Scar?" Piggy blinked behind his thick specs. Questioning, he reached up for his head and ran his finger along the long scar that now stretched from the back of his head a long way down to his forehead. "Oh." Unable to say much, he echoed the furrow of the brows.
It didn't take him long to recover, as he soon started again. "I can't remember much.." his round face scrunched up as he struggled to recall, "I think I fall, something split open, and something escaped me, leaked out, I think. Then everything went black.." He jolted with sudden realization, "My specs!" Meaty hands flew up to the spectacles on the bridge of his small round nose, he sighed in relief. "I-I," he was so close to starting again but both are suddenly aware of the presence of a third figure.
The frantic returned in Ralph for a moment, quite a brief one, in fact, before brightening up at the recognition of the small dark figure.
"Simon!" he exclaimed in delight. "You are alive too? Then, then, maybe none of you died, and this- this-" The bewildered look gradually returned; a dumb smile was plastered on his face. But as he struggled with the ideal, he was soon forced back into reality by a glimpse of the scar, and and of the pieces of Simon's flesh that couldn't quite attach themselves properly.
Simon was paying attention to none of that. He rushed over and tugged on Ralph's hand, frantically  trying to say something. "Ralph, Ralph! The beast- the beast! There is no beast, it is only a dead body, and parachute, para--"
"Man, those are some damn gruesome kids."
A male's voice coldly sliced into the moment of truth. One that belongs to a man who looks ironically, quite reliable. A good man, even.
The man's uneasiness was covered by a frown, and shielded by  visible grumpiness. In fact, he longed for the familiar rifle. The one that he knows too well about. He carried that gun to work everyday, but now that he doesn't have it with him, he felt-- strange-- almost uneasy. Now that there are abnormally gruesome children in the room with him, that feeling only multiplies.
"John Proctor!"
Oh how his longings for the gun grew.
Proctor directed his attention towards the old reverend with much unwillingness.
"John Proctor!" The reverend exclaims yet again. "But how?"
Proctor's face might've twitched slightly in distaste, but the longing had grew to be so much that he doesn't realize the that.
And there, suddenly, he felt the familiar grip in his hand. Solid friendliness in his palm.

Overcame by his annoyance, Proctor seized the chance. For he might not get another. He quickly raised his rifle and made a well rounded hole right in the center of the old reverend's wide forehead, a forehead so bare that it looks like a weakness. Up for grabs, for anyone to shoot. And Proctor made his shot right in the center, as if he has been practicing for so long, only for that moment.
Droplets of red hue seeped out of the well rounded hole, and soon the reverend collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. The red liquid bubbled when the old man gasped for a few more breaths, but he was quickly ignored.
"Proctor!"  He glanced over towards the source when he heard his name being exclaimed yet again, and there stood another reverend. "Why? That's Mr. Parris..?" The comment dragged on to become a questioning, for even the reverend doubts that Proctor has no reason at all to shoot Parris.
His attention was soon redirected towards the small group of children, dumbstruck, and staring back at him.
"Hale.." Proctor said reluctantly, in slight distaste.
"What children!" The reverend exclaimed once again. "Pray you!" Hale said, rushing over in small frantic steps. "Confess to me-" Proctor frowned slightly-"Who did such things to you children?" He asked, squatting down to the same level as them in an attempt to reduce their visible discomfort.
Both Simon and Piggy turned to Ralph as the fair boy stepped out with the obligation of a chief. The look in the Ralph's eyes slowly settled into ones with more confidence before he started to speak.
"Our plane crashed," He started slowly as he struggled to remember the agonizing events. "There weren't any grown ups."
"Fun and games." Proctor commented, and then recieved a look of disapproval from Hale.
"It was like that at first," Said Ralph, "before things---"
He stopped.
Making up his mind, he started again. "I was chief. I was, was--" He struggled to find the word, to continue.
"Voted." Piggy offered.
"Yes, voted chief. I was voted chief." Ralph continued, easily finding the words, more like the words flowed freely out of him. The natural charisma was put back into act. "But then Jack started to ask the hunters-- the choir, to join his tribe, and then, then-" Ralph faltered.
"Simon was k-killed, mistaken for the beast, and Piggy, rock, r-rock, rock--" Ralph is stuck.
"And I think a rock hit me, I'm not sure though. I think I'm supposed to be dead." Piggy happily took over and explained a matter of factly while Simon patted Ralph in concern.
"And an American soldier saved us, took us away. I never saw Jack, never saw them again." Ralph ended, feeling the same obligation to end things.
"So who is this Jack I keep hearing about?" Proctor asked, growing interested in the kids.
"Jack, that Jack Merridew! Oh he thinks he's chief, always hunting.." Piggy started to answer without the conch. He was infuriated by the thoughts of Jack Merridew. "He took my specs too! He thinks that he could just steal my specs, and our fire and --"
And Piggy, as one to be interrupting people, he was interrupted too. By a blood curdling scream, he was. It was from a girl, no older than eighteen, who was on her bottom, scrambling towards Proctor on all fours.
"Mary Warren!" Proctor exclaimed in surprise.
"Abby! Abby, don't! Abby, I'm not going to hurt you more!" Mary Warren cried. She is backing away from a stunningly beautiful girl, who is none other but Abigail Williams.

And beside her stood a red haired boy. One who bears the name of Jack Merridew.