Closer to Fine

Disclaimer: Pitch Black is not mine, it belongs to Universal Pictures, Interscope communications and David Twohy. This story is for entertainment only! (hopefully anyway) The title came from an Indigo Girls song, which helped me to write this little ficlet.

Rating: PG-13 I guess, for angst and some dark themes.

Authors Note: This story started out as an original fic, which started with the idea of candlelight. It then evolved into this, my first, and likely only Pitch Black fan fiction, so constructive criticism is welcome, but don't be cruel, it won't help to make my writing any better! I know there has been a few different takes on how Carolyn Fry would feel if she had actually survived, and this is my version, and unless you all really want me to continue this, this is also a one shot.

Anyway, read on and enjoy.

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The candlelight made shadows dance across the wall, steaming water rippled and sweat trickled down the hollow of her throat.

Wax melted across porcelain, bleeding together, the heady smell of burning, vanilla and sulfur was in the air. Aside from the candles the small bathroom was pitch black.

It was strange, that despite everything, the darkness comforted her. It was like everything she lost in the dark was everything she gained. The light was too harsh it showed too much. The night and shadows left room for secrets. The darkness allowed her to ask questions she'd never dare to ask if she could see her reflection in a mirror.

She held her finger over the flame of a thick white candle, letting it burn. She winced but didn't pull her hand away, not until it blistered. She stared at the bubble of liquid under her skin, and then she tugged with her right index finger and broke the skin.

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She leaned back and submerged under the water, water lapped over the edge, extinguishing a few of the squatter candles. She opened her eyes against the burn and stared hazily. She saw the remaining candlelight's undulate above water. She wondered how long it would take her to drown if she opened her mouth and drank the water in.

Not for me.

She sat up suddenly, raising her arms to wipe the stinging liquid from her eyes, the rest of the candles went out and all edges disappeared. She moved her hand in front of her face, she knew her hand was there, she just couldn't see it.

Not for me.

It wasn't as if she meant to. Her mind was telling her to get onto that ship, while her body was running back into the dark. Running back for him. Him. A feeling settled into her stomach, a clenching pain she hadn't yet been able to define.

-

A cool settled over her shoulders, and she tensed, until she remembered she'd left the window open. She reveled in the small relief of cool air that passed over her face; it was almost as if it were a caress...

Her sides ached with phantom pain; the scars had almost faded. It was amazing what medical technology and money could do. They could give a whole new life if you wanted. She had wanted, she'd wanted it so bad she'd been sick with the need. She fell to her knee's, curled in on herself and sobbed in a puddle of her own filth.

But she knew. She knew that even if she had paid for the surgery and flown as far away as she could from everything she'd ever known... she'd still remember. The memories would haunt her. That's why she was still alive. Her life was her vigil. Giving into the darkness would be too easy, and she at least owed them that much. It was all she could give... and it would have to be enough.

She dreamt of them sometimes, not on that planet. Not in their last moments. She dreamt of them without fear, pain or blood. But in a grocery store, the lights so glaring, she had to shade her eyes, turn her face away. Or in a park, with grass spread like an emerald carpet.

Those dreams were the worst because when they laughed, cried, screamed, sang-- prayed she knew they'd never do any of that again.

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She stood up suddenly, water rolled off her in rivulets. She reached down and pried a candle off the edge of the bathtub. She grabbed the box of matches from the soap holder, and slipped on the water slick floor.

"Fuck." She cursed as her hip crashed against the counter. She fumbled with the matches and finally pulled one free. She lit the candle on the second try with shaking fingers; she blew out the match just as the fire licked her fingertips. She looked into the mirror and gasped.

"Not for me..."

She spun around, the candle flickered but did not go out. Her foot brushed against the edge of the bath mat and she jumped. She pressed a hand against her heart and stepped onto the terry cloth. She rubbed the soles of her feet against the softness.

She closed her eyes took a deep breath, then opened them. Scanned the bathroom. She was alone.

She let out a breath painfully. She'd been so sure... so certain.

It was only recently that she'd begun to see them, flashed out of the corner of her eyes, always just out of her line of vision...but...

A flash of silver.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder and only saw her own frightened face staring back at her. She cocked her head, frightened... and hopeful. Then she looked down at her fingers, two silver bands, wrapped around her right ring and middle finger. She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to center herself. Then she reached down and picked up a folded towel from the floor.

She rubbed it through her hair, then wrapped it tightly around her body. She dipped her foot into the tub to unplug the drain, then she wandered over to the window. Street lamps were lit down her street, and she stared out into the night, then out into the stars.

That was when the memories came, or rather, the fragments of memories.

She didn't remember much after being ripped away into the night, except for Riddick's face, as their hands slipped as she grasped to hold on. As he disappeared into the shadow. She remembered the jarring pain, the creatures claws slipped in her skin, tearing deeper, then she was falling. She lay still, the impact had chased all air from her lungs and she was sure she was dead.

Then came the rushing pain, which was slowly replaced by a dull throbbing. She remembered thinking, being dead should hurt more. She blinked, and sucked in a deep breath of air, she cowered, but then... she heard the shrill screams and whoops overhead, and suddenly something wet and warm slopped across her face. She heard the sick squeltch and shrieking, then she knew. She had to get away now, while the rest of the birds were distracted.

She started to crawl, she dug her fingers into the mug and dragged her self along, she had no idea where she was, how far the creature had flown before it had crashed.

Then came the rushing pain, which was slowly replaced by a dull throbbing. She remembered thinking, being dead should hurt more.

Then she started to crawl, she dug her fingers into the mug and dragged her self along, she had no idea where she was, how far the creature had flown before it had crashed.

How the hell had that happened anyway? She'd wondered that briefly as she knocked her head into the side of something-- perhaps a building. God-dammit. That hurt was the hurt she remembered most clearly. She didn't dwell on her former question long, she didn't want to know why she was alive when the others were dead. She didn't want to be let in on the joke.

What about staying in the light, what about the light?

Carolyn had never thought of herself as particularly lucky-- but then, she'd never considered herself particularly unlucky.

If this is luck... she'd thought darkly, then luck can go fuck itself. She didn't want this luck, she wanted to give it back to Owens, to Shazza, to Hassan.

A scream tore from her throat, she felt blood vessel's rupture; a coppery taste at the back of her throat, she tripped, tore open her shin.

Then finally she turned the corner.

-

And she was alone. The realization had hit her like a sucker punch to the gut, it was the thing that finally forced her to her knees. Her discarded bottle of Jack Daniels crammed full of the glowing worms lay on the ground. She snagged the bottle with bloody fingers, and a strange calm settled over her. A final sort of calm.

So this is it.

She'd cradled the glowing bottle against her body, and closed her eyes.

She didn't know why she thought they'd come back for her, but somewhere she had hoped. Hoped they'd waited, hoped somehow they'd know that she wasn't dead, that she was coming back...

She'd completely forgotten about the SOS something touched her, she screamed, until the thing gathered her into warm hands. A face out of focus was asking her questions.

"Jack?" She murmured, the young girls face was triggered in her minds eye, "are you sure you're bleeding honey?"

The face kept talking to her.

A warmth, comfort, a blanket was wrapped around her shoulder.

"Imam-- Where the fuck you'd get the blanket?"

She heard gunfire, and the sound of a shrill cry.

"Riddick--" She blurted, "stay in the light," she looked over to the face, "are you afraid of the dark?" She murmured before she passed out.

When she finally came to again, the face was talking to her again. Except this time, it was more than a face, she could see a jaw and lips and a hooked nose, she saw eyes a forehead and red hair.

Carolyn had been sure this was some form of hell. She'd asked where the others were, if Jack was all right. They looked at her with concern, with pity and whispered to each other in low tones. Doctor speak that she couldn't understand.

The Face explained that they'd received a distress call, the Face kept asking all these fucking questions. Then they gave her something that would help her sleep.

"You're just a face." Carolyn murmured as she slipped into drug induced oblivion.

"Just a face..." Carolyn murmured, she pulled apart her towel and stared at herself in the mirror. She was a slip of the old Carolyn Fry, a shell.

She closed her eyes against a silver flash.

She was alone.

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Fin