Walking around the forest, a sudden weird rotting smell hits your nose. As you try to cover your lower face with your hand, your ears perk up to the buzzing of flies. When you brush away all the green creepers and leaves, you are greeted with a gruesome sight.

A dead pig on a stick.

Despite it being inanimate, obviously because it is dead, you felt as if you are slowly getting into a trance. As if your surroundings slowly corner you into a small space, with this.. dead thing attached to a wooden stick at your front. As it faces you, you notice how it glares at you, as if it's.. a forbidden mirror grappling something that is deep within your chest and snatching it out to prove a point. The flies swarmed the head, they were black and iridescent green and without number; and in front of you, the Lord of the Flies hung on his stick and grinned. At last you gave up and looked back; saw the white teeth and dim eyes, the blood—and his gaze was held by that ancient, inescapable recognition.

And then, it spoke.