::: CHAPTER THREE :::
The moment I saw the convicted murderer, I was smitten, which is saying a lot for me. He sat with his torso relaxed and his head down. The first word that came to mind was 'king.' He looked so peaceful for someone with their hands unfree, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if he wanted he could have easily broken through. The woman, Fry, had jumped when he lunged at her; I didn't even flinch. His eyes were cold -- staring at no one, but his face held a twinge of anxiety. He had referred to me then, or more precisely the "cute kid." After hearing the conditions for getting gleaming-steel eyes as him, I had vowed to start my collection of Menthol Kools. The word 'control' coated my lips like a sweet wine. I had nervously bitten my lower lip to taste the heavy atmosphere. For a moment, I wondered what Riddick's lips would taste like.
I tried to strip away his outer shell and witness the workings of his mind, but it was difficult. My psychiatrist had said something about this. A feeling or connection that would tell me who I should imitate. Somehow I don't think the good doctor was thinking I would be getting this feeling about a man who took pleasure in fucking with people's minds and alienating himself. This alone drew me to him. The other alluring aspect was his eyes. Eyes that made me want to read books upon books about surgical eye procedures just to be able to discern the different methods of altering sight. I thought that maybe through altering sight you also change what you perceive. I was pretty sure that Riddick saw much more with his shine-job than others saw with their God-given eyes.
Of course I had heard about the infamous Richard B. Riddick. My highschool was full of boys who spent hours perfecting their bodies to look like him and after school time in metal shop to make weapons they would never properly use. This had never concerned me. When I wasn't in school or lying in bed feigning sleep, I was talking to my counselor. My counselor never thought of me as troubled per say. He just thought that I was going through regular teenage stuff and that my lack of friends was due to low self-esteem. It couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, it was my high self-reverence that kept me from socializing. I talked to a lot of people in any given day, but I made sure to sever the connection with the last sentence. The next day I would worry about it -- making a new weak link and just as quickly ending it. The only power that allowed me to do this was my ability to read people so well. I knew their woes, and I pretended to be going through the same things. I related. But what I was really doing was manipulating. Intuition and a variety of cleverness was but a frail string but enough to latch on for a while. Unfortunately, I had to care what others thought. If I didn't, surely my parents would have shoved me in some mental ward.
I made petty conversation with all of the survivors, but I couldn't wait to get away for just a bit. There was something I needed to do. The moment I found some time, which shouldn't have been that difficult since all there existed was time, I awkwardly used a metal blade I had found to slowly strip my short hair off. I was careful to not cut myself, while every so often jutting my eyes around to make sure I was still alone. While performing the tedious task, my mind took me back to the source of the reason.
*************
"Jacqueline. Your problem is you don't want to change."
I stared long and hard at the sincerely worried face of my counselor. I had the strong urge to fix his crooked black rimmed glasses and tousle his perfectly parted hair. He was wearing a stiff suit along with a tie that wasn't required. I knew what he thought of me. I snuck a look at the notes. He saw me as an intelligent young woman searching for identity and struggling with expectations. He was partially right -- I was struggling to appease everyone but not for the reason he believed. I wasn't going to those type of lengths to fit it; I was doing it for the sole purpose of avoiding questioning glares and flippant judgments.
"People changing doesn't exist." I thought my argument was valid. I simply didn't believe in actual change -- just control of your unwanted tendencies. God did I ever know about control.
The doctor grinned. "Ah. But you see you don't know that unless you've tried to change something."
I sighed and frowned. I didn't like where this was going. "Well, what do you propose exactly?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Just a little experiment." The subtle pride in his voice made flashes of pain prickle my inner palm. I realized that I had dug my fingernails into it. He continued to shatter my calming life. "This theory has been tested by many others." He handed me a sickly colorful pamphlet with the title: You Control Who You Are. What a bunch of bullshit, I thought. My "unique" way of thinking had been with me since the beginning. I could actually trace it back to my first memories. I was around four . . . .
The doctor's mellow voice cut through my analyzing thoughts.
"Jackie, you should try this." He indicated to the sheet of paper I was clutching in my hand. "It's radical so I know it is something that might pique your interest. Basically it says that you should make a conscious decision of becoming someone the total opposite of you." I was about to protest, but he stopped me. "Just for a while . . . not permanently. It is just a way for you to be free of your inhibitions. If you are someone else, then you can act the way you want and then take what you learn to your "real" identity. Also another fringe benefit is learning more about the person you imitate and possibly making a new friend. And remember choose someone you like...someone you feel connected to . . . someone admirable." He smiled widely at me like a little boy opening a Christmas present.
It sounded pretty logical, and I was sure it was helpful to those who needed it, but inhibitions were not my problem. I chose to sheath myself in mystery and not let anyone in the locked room. By becoming someone else, I would render myself vulnerable to ridicule and judgment from that person. That lucky person's ego would flair, and they would use my "adoring" them to their advantage. That was definitely not happening. I thanked the Doctor and promised to give it thought.
************
I finished shaving my head and quietly chuckled to myself. I never thought I would cave and give in to the experiment. But I knew the only way to get close to someone like Riddick was to worship him and what better form of worship than imitation? If he was God, I would definitely try to be in his image. This wasn't for me. I wasn't looking for self-understanding or getting to know myself; I just needed a particular trait to distinguish myself for Riddick, like a marking animals use to differentiate when they all look the same on the outside. I wasn't looking forward to the unwarranted stares and Riddick's smugness of having another cult follower, but I knew Riddick would see my infatuation as instant weakness and subconsciously be attracted to it. He probably saw a little girl pretending to be a boy. The truth, however, was that I was an ancient soul pretending to be a little girl pretending to be a boy. What I really had was the strong, tangible desire to break Riddick down systematically. I used this costume sham to lure him into thinking I was innocent enough for him to corrupt, which I most certainly wasn't.
The moment I saw the convicted murderer, I was smitten, which is saying a lot for me. He sat with his torso relaxed and his head down. The first word that came to mind was 'king.' He looked so peaceful for someone with their hands unfree, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if he wanted he could have easily broken through. The woman, Fry, had jumped when he lunged at her; I didn't even flinch. His eyes were cold -- staring at no one, but his face held a twinge of anxiety. He had referred to me then, or more precisely the "cute kid." After hearing the conditions for getting gleaming-steel eyes as him, I had vowed to start my collection of Menthol Kools. The word 'control' coated my lips like a sweet wine. I had nervously bitten my lower lip to taste the heavy atmosphere. For a moment, I wondered what Riddick's lips would taste like.
I tried to strip away his outer shell and witness the workings of his mind, but it was difficult. My psychiatrist had said something about this. A feeling or connection that would tell me who I should imitate. Somehow I don't think the good doctor was thinking I would be getting this feeling about a man who took pleasure in fucking with people's minds and alienating himself. This alone drew me to him. The other alluring aspect was his eyes. Eyes that made me want to read books upon books about surgical eye procedures just to be able to discern the different methods of altering sight. I thought that maybe through altering sight you also change what you perceive. I was pretty sure that Riddick saw much more with his shine-job than others saw with their God-given eyes.
Of course I had heard about the infamous Richard B. Riddick. My highschool was full of boys who spent hours perfecting their bodies to look like him and after school time in metal shop to make weapons they would never properly use. This had never concerned me. When I wasn't in school or lying in bed feigning sleep, I was talking to my counselor. My counselor never thought of me as troubled per say. He just thought that I was going through regular teenage stuff and that my lack of friends was due to low self-esteem. It couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, it was my high self-reverence that kept me from socializing. I talked to a lot of people in any given day, but I made sure to sever the connection with the last sentence. The next day I would worry about it -- making a new weak link and just as quickly ending it. The only power that allowed me to do this was my ability to read people so well. I knew their woes, and I pretended to be going through the same things. I related. But what I was really doing was manipulating. Intuition and a variety of cleverness was but a frail string but enough to latch on for a while. Unfortunately, I had to care what others thought. If I didn't, surely my parents would have shoved me in some mental ward.
I made petty conversation with all of the survivors, but I couldn't wait to get away for just a bit. There was something I needed to do. The moment I found some time, which shouldn't have been that difficult since all there existed was time, I awkwardly used a metal blade I had found to slowly strip my short hair off. I was careful to not cut myself, while every so often jutting my eyes around to make sure I was still alone. While performing the tedious task, my mind took me back to the source of the reason.
*************
"Jacqueline. Your problem is you don't want to change."
I stared long and hard at the sincerely worried face of my counselor. I had the strong urge to fix his crooked black rimmed glasses and tousle his perfectly parted hair. He was wearing a stiff suit along with a tie that wasn't required. I knew what he thought of me. I snuck a look at the notes. He saw me as an intelligent young woman searching for identity and struggling with expectations. He was partially right -- I was struggling to appease everyone but not for the reason he believed. I wasn't going to those type of lengths to fit it; I was doing it for the sole purpose of avoiding questioning glares and flippant judgments.
"People changing doesn't exist." I thought my argument was valid. I simply didn't believe in actual change -- just control of your unwanted tendencies. God did I ever know about control.
The doctor grinned. "Ah. But you see you don't know that unless you've tried to change something."
I sighed and frowned. I didn't like where this was going. "Well, what do you propose exactly?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Just a little experiment." The subtle pride in his voice made flashes of pain prickle my inner palm. I realized that I had dug my fingernails into it. He continued to shatter my calming life. "This theory has been tested by many others." He handed me a sickly colorful pamphlet with the title: You Control Who You Are. What a bunch of bullshit, I thought. My "unique" way of thinking had been with me since the beginning. I could actually trace it back to my first memories. I was around four . . . .
The doctor's mellow voice cut through my analyzing thoughts.
"Jackie, you should try this." He indicated to the sheet of paper I was clutching in my hand. "It's radical so I know it is something that might pique your interest. Basically it says that you should make a conscious decision of becoming someone the total opposite of you." I was about to protest, but he stopped me. "Just for a while . . . not permanently. It is just a way for you to be free of your inhibitions. If you are someone else, then you can act the way you want and then take what you learn to your "real" identity. Also another fringe benefit is learning more about the person you imitate and possibly making a new friend. And remember choose someone you like...someone you feel connected to . . . someone admirable." He smiled widely at me like a little boy opening a Christmas present.
It sounded pretty logical, and I was sure it was helpful to those who needed it, but inhibitions were not my problem. I chose to sheath myself in mystery and not let anyone in the locked room. By becoming someone else, I would render myself vulnerable to ridicule and judgment from that person. That lucky person's ego would flair, and they would use my "adoring" them to their advantage. That was definitely not happening. I thanked the Doctor and promised to give it thought.
************
I finished shaving my head and quietly chuckled to myself. I never thought I would cave and give in to the experiment. But I knew the only way to get close to someone like Riddick was to worship him and what better form of worship than imitation? If he was God, I would definitely try to be in his image. This wasn't for me. I wasn't looking for self-understanding or getting to know myself; I just needed a particular trait to distinguish myself for Riddick, like a marking animals use to differentiate when they all look the same on the outside. I wasn't looking forward to the unwarranted stares and Riddick's smugness of having another cult follower, but I knew Riddick would see my infatuation as instant weakness and subconsciously be attracted to it. He probably saw a little girl pretending to be a boy. The truth, however, was that I was an ancient soul pretending to be a little girl pretending to be a boy. What I really had was the strong, tangible desire to break Riddick down systematically. I used this costume sham to lure him into thinking I was innocent enough for him to corrupt, which I most certainly wasn't.