He was thirty four years old, his body was in prime condition. He had always been proud that it had never let him down.
He was back in slam.
It was a mistake, just a few misplaced steps. He should have known something was wrong with him then. It just didn't click until that day six months ago. He had felt fine when he had gone to bed that night, but in the morning he had barely made it to the toilet. He was throwing up blood, lots of it. It didn't taste right though. It had a chemical taste somehow. The guards found him unconscious on the floor, and had taken him to the medic. That's when he learned the truth.
Cryoleukemia.
They had told him that there were only two hundred people in the last ten years to have it. His case was unique, since he never went to sleep in cryo, his body absorbed more of the chemicals than most did. Perfect lab rat.
Some egghead had gotten a law passed that if a convict came down with a terminal illness, they could recieve a full pardon. One condition, they had to become test subjects for treatment for that illness. He had traded a life sentence for a death sentence. He didn't want to die in slam.
When he was thirty five, he was a free man. No more mercs. Just what he had always dreamed of. Just not like this.
He was set up in a house on a nearby planet, with doctors and nurses to monitor him. The drugs that they tested on him were worse than the disease. He was down to one hundred fifty Earth pounds, his bones were brittle, and his teeth were falling out.
Three days ago, he had rolled over and hit his left knee on the bedrail, shattering it. He had screamed until the nurse had come in. He screamed even louder when all she did was pour alcohol on it. She had laughed at him.
"Big, bad, souless, killer Richard B. Riddick. Screaming like a baby. Huh. You'da thought that you had feelings or something."
He did have feelings damnit! If he were in the shape that he once was, he would make this bitch the first woman that he killed. At least she had gave him clean sheets. In two days she wouldn't have to worry about him. In two days he was going to escape one last time.
He had tried to remember the name of a girl that he was very fond of, but couldn't. Those damn drugs. He wished he could see her one more time. He could see her pretty face, and wanted to laugh at the fact that she had shaved her head to look like him.
Yesterday he had gone blind. Darkness had always been home to him ever since he had his eyes shined. Now even they couldn't help him.
A few weeks back, the doctors had put a needle in his spinal cord, so he could give himself morphine shots when the pain was bad enough. It was also set up to give him one every four hours. He was glad he had fucked with it yeaterday while he could still see. Damn, he wanted one now.
Why not, what was he waiting for?
His thin hands grabbed the button and felt the welcoming burn as two days of morphine hit his spinal cord. He hoped that if there was a God, he would give him a break. He had done a few good things in his life.
He heard an angel speak his name. He turned his sightless eyes towards the voice. Suddenly he remembered the girl's name.
"Jack."
He smiled when the angel took his hand and he closed his eyes.
She had finally found where they had placed him. When she had got there, his breathing was shallow, and she called his name. He smiled as she took his thin hand in hers and died.
She removed the I.V.s from his arms, leaned him up and pulled the needle from his back. It was still running out morphine.
"Oh, Riddick." She rocked his body and cried.
She wouldn't let the officals get their hands on his body. She would see to his burial, someplace quiet, someplace that he would have liked.
She began to gather what few things he had. She slipped his goggles into her pocket. Part of him would always be with her.
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