Three years post PB

Riddick awoke, sweat on his forehead. He had had that dream again. He had stopped dreaming since going to Slam. In the beginning he dreamed of the outside world, of someone loving him, of being human again. The only way for him to survive in Slam was to kill.kill the guilty, kill the innocent, just kill. Who and when you killed determined your station. If you killed only those who tormented you during the dark of night, you were nothing. If you killed anyone at night, you were given some respect. If you killed only those who tormented you during the day, you were fairly well respected, a king rat. If you killed the guy that looked at you wrong once during the day, you were a god. You were feared and given anything you wanted. Riddick had been a god- the one time he didn't want that kind of respect. No one knew, but he longed to be human again, to be able to see sunlight and feel another's skin in love, not death. He swallowed hard. All those he had killed were better off dead~ child molesters, rapists, murderers. They all had a lifetime ticked in Slam. That thought usually gave him some comfort, but tonight it made him sick. He tried to go to sleep for an hour, and when he finally did it was a sleep riddled with dreams of the past, the present, and of a future he knew he could never have.

Riddick, 26 now, smiled into the camera. He had short jet black hair and blue eyes. After the picture was taken, he lifted the girl into the air. She squealed and clung onto him. This made him spin in a circle, faster and faster until the world was a blur of ocean, sand, and sky. The pair toppled into the sand, gasping for air and laughing. She lovingly laid a hand on his chest. She kissed him on the cheek. He smiled into her beautiful face and told her how much he loved her.

A 34 year old Riddick, now bald and wearing light screening goggles, walked thought the streets of New York, looking at vendors and seeing happy couples. They walked hand in hand and Riddick just ignored them. It was something he had become good at. He ate a tasteless hotdog and continued on his way. He saw the fleeting image of a beautiful girl in a blue sundress. He looked again but it was gone. He ran to where he thought she went. There she was again. He followed her for miles and miles, too far away to touch, too close to give up and go home. Soon he was exhausted- emotionally more than physically. He stopped for a second to catch his breath, but as soon as he did, she was gone. He hardened his heart to the disappearance and began the methodical walk back home.to a life he hated.

Riddick, now 50, trudged back up to the apartment he had had for almost 20 years now. He knew what was awaiting him.a big nothing. There was no one to come home to, no one to hug, and no one to talk to- not even a cat. He accepted this fact like all the other parts of his life- head on and unflinching. He knew his life was miserable but he didn't know how to change it. He opened the door and stared into the immense blackness.his home.his heart.

There is a lone grave on the ugly side of a hill, facing the city of New York. It is alone and simply says RB Riddick. No dates, no poem, no picture. No flowers, just emptiness.