Seasons
Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick
Amos Whirly
Word Count: 450

She liked springtime. I remember that. She would run outside and smell every flower she could find. Imam's wife kept a garden of roses just for Jack. Or Jackie. Or Kyra. Whatever her name was. I don't think I ever really knew.

Guess I'll never know now.

If I had to pick a season – well I would have said winter. There's nothing like the cold chill of an icy wind. Nothing. The only comparison is death or knowing you're about to die. It cuts like a knife, and everyone knows I have an affinity for those. But I can't say winter's my favorite anymore. I spent five years on a frozen heap of a planet. That was enough winter for me.

I can't say summer either. Course summer's better than spring (with all its twitterpated idiots) and nicer than winter. But of all the seasons, the one that suits me now, I think, is autumn. Some psychological freak out there would probably say that's because I'm getting soft, leaving behind the bloody blades that got me where I am today.

Nope. I'm still bloody, still bad. So what do I see in autumn that I like? It's not change. It's not color (I don't see color anymore). It's that narrow dividing line that separates life and death. All those little leaves hanging on. Some let go, but some hold on. That's the difference between Jack and Kyra, between Kyra and me.

Jack loved life; Kyra loved death. They may have been the same body, but they weren't the same person. Kyra was just stronger, forced Jack away, deep down inside her soul. Jack would have held on. She would have clung to that branch with everything she had, if not for herself than for me. Because I was clinging to that same branch right beside her.

Kyra didn't. Kyra let go. The wind blew her off somewhere, God knows where. And she took Jack down with her.

That wind's still blowing, but I'm hanging on. I'll still be holding to that branch even after the first snow has fallen. That's me, walking that line between autumn and winter, between life and death. That's what life is, after all, seeing how much you can let go before you lose your grip.

Winter's always coming. The wind's always blowing. But I'm not willing to let go yet. So I keep clinging. I'll keep on clinging until I'm the only one left, and I'll hold on a little longer after that. I'm not naïve. I'm going to die someday. But I'm bound and determined to give the universe hell before I let go.