She lived her life within the soft glow of the bedside light. Reading, praying, thinking.
Everything beyond that was cause and effect.
He called, she came.
He cooked, she ate.
He swung, she ducked.
Except when she didn't and ended up in on the floor, stunned, breathless and in pain. And still he never relented.
But there were times when she landed a successful blow and was twelve again; enjoying the closeness of his body, laughing when he missed and cursing when he didn't.
Until the spar was over and the silence was uncomfortable, pressing, absolute. And then he was less of a friend and more of a captor.
It always ended with him looming above her, breathing hard, chest not quite touching hers. Sometimes she'd turn her head, stare hard at the wall, pretend he wasn't there. Other times she'd close her eyes and just allow him to be close, let his breath ruffle her hair, and his body heat warm her face and arms. It was nice.
Three weeks in, she noticed a change, an up in his brutality.
He was on her the second she'd stepped into the dojo. She was able to duck, collect herself and move to a more defensive position. But there was no denying him, no escaping his blows.
She dodged, weaved, eluded until she miscalculated and he hit her hard enough to make stars explode in her head. She went sprawling. Stayed on the floor watching the blood drip from her nose and puddle on the mat.
"Get up." He was behind her, demanding, impatient. Angry.
"Thought we were pulling punches. Asshole."
He remained silent, radiating anger from his position in the corner.
She pushed to her feet, loped to the door. "I don't know what's wrong with you. And I don't care. I'm going."
"Gym, lock down."
She retracted her hand before the gym door slammed shut. Could feel the blood trickling down her shirt, his eyes heavy between her shoulder blades.
Words wouldn't come so she closed her eyes, waiting for the blow. Waiting for pain and then the blood and then the darkness.
He's going to kill me. After all this. He's still going to kill me.
She felt betrayed.
Don't be stupid. He's not on my side. I don't even have a side.
His hand settling on the access pad on the wall beside her startled her out of her thoughts. His eyes caught hers and for a second her feelings of betrayal were written all over his face. He almost looked sorry.
What the hell?
And then he was Riddick again, something incomprehensible, unreachable.
He slipped into the darkness of the hallway.
She allowed herself two minutes of consideration, and then set off after him.
He was at the bridge, in the chair that seemed to have always belonged to him.
"Get out of here."
Her body responded to his command, jerked as if to hasten away.
No, godammit.
"What's the issue, Riddick? I want to know if I'm going to have to worry about you killing me in my sleep tonight."
It was silent forever. She waited for him to spring up, to be the monster that she knew he was, kill her, cut her, end her.
Instead he swung around in his chair, dropped the tele-reader he'd been holding at her feet and brushed past her, knocking her against the bridge's railing.
She waited a full three minutes, until she was sure he had gone, before picking up the reader . Bending over put her at a disadvantage if he decided to attack.
The thought made her snort, and then giggle, and then laugh until her lungs ached.
Sitting, standing, sleeping. It didn't matter. When he got tired of her, he'd kill her. She was living on his whim.
That stopped the laughter. She settled into his chair. Felt the leather, worn from use, warm from his skin. Felt distinctly out of place, got up and moved to the co-pilot's chair.
It felt like home.
The reader's screen brightened at her touch. A Helion tabloid.
God, is that how I looked?
A cow-eyed girl, a wraith of a girl stared up from the reader. Next to her was the compulsory deadpan mugshot of Riddick. The headline read, 'The Devil's Bride'.
She chuckled humorlessly at the reporter's accuracy.
And then pictures of Abu and Lajjun. A dull aching throb started between her eyes and in her chest. She wondered if Abu even knew, how worried he must be.
She scrolled down further, jerked, and the reader fell from her fingers.
A face, old and wrinkled and impossibly familiar stared up blindly from the screen.
It was cold when she woke up. A hard, biting cold that made her shudder underneath the itchy wool blankets. It was a long moment before she could focus in the dim light.
The children were on the far side of the hut, stacked almost like firewood against each other.
There was cold gruel congealing in the bowl by her cot, she scooped it into her mouth. It made her stomach burn. Her whole body burned.
The old woman muttered in her sleep, rolled over, shivering. Jack stood, draped her blanket around the woman. Spotted her clothes in the corner and dressed quickly.
Grey cargoes had the rusty brown stain of blood up and down the legs. Old lady must've tried to wash them. They were freezing as she pulled them on, not bothering to fasten buttons. The hem of her sweater was the same. It didn't matter.
At the door there was a basket, surrounded by flowers, under a fine white lace. Jack tore the basket open and gently picked up the bundle inside.
The streets were dark and cold and empty save for a few stray mutts. Her feet beat against the pavement, tears drying on her face as she ran.
Gradually the city thinned out and she was running through the fields. Her foot hit a rock and she went sprawling, bundle flying from her arms. She hit cold dirt and slid. She lay there until the call of birds roused her.
She had to get home.
She picked up the bundle again and the cloth fell open. A tiny hand, what could've been a leg. Jack wrapped it up secure, cradled it close to her chest and walked.
Early morning workers silently watched as she walked alone, unthinking, unfeeling down the middle of the road. She made it to the hills and continued on mechanically.
The gate was easy enough to scale. And the dirt in the garden was soft and moist. She stripped, dropped her clothes in the hole, lowered in the bundle. Covered it with the heaviest piece of flagstone she could find.
Cargoes, boots, and knives. Things she'd collected, cherished, loved. All into the incinerator. She watched them burn, and started anew.
No Jack. No running. No Riddick.
Control was all she needed. Pain would be her reminder.
She showered, scrubbed, erased herself.
She made Abu breakfast, managed to grin at his surprised smile.
Sat down across from him, "Morning…baba."
The reader beeped in her lap. Dead battery. She let it shut itself down.
That morning was crystal clear, etched into her mind like a vid scene. Something for someone else's life.
She couldn't summon the will to cry.
Absentmindedly fingered the frayed harnesses of her chair, ran her hands along the armrests.
Feels like home.
She'd almost forgotten the pressing black of deep space. How much she loved it, appreciated it.
And how much she had used to like the idea that she and Riddick and Abu were their own civilization. Their own world within a tin-can space ship.
How fucking stupid could I have been?
From her seat she could see some far off system cutting through the absolute nothingness like a gaping, glittering wound.
Ah, winter break. Time to tend to my much neglected stories. I thank you all for all the feedback.