::: CHAPTER FIVE :::
I stared out the window, at the whirlpool of vivid colored space gases combining with dull, jagged rocks. The skiff was a speck in the universe. A crumb and yet Imam prayed for the safety of the killer and me, a child cloaked in lies and deception, to land on a planet no bigger than a pebble for the universe. I liked being in space. Planet's seemed too claustrophobic for me. Constantly, I thought that one day a planet would be failed by gravity and go plunging into . . . nothing, I presumed. If that ever happened, there would be no savior or light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes I fantasized about that being my death.
I was not surprised that Carolyn and all the others died. Apprehension for Imam clouded my thoughts. I half expected him to keel over from a heart attack, but I was glad to have someone to talk to. Riddick grew wary of me. It was almost like he started to realize I was more than I showcased. He never fully guessed the wickedness buried deep in me, but he felt something was disturbingly off. All for the better though because I couldn't act like little runaway Jack anymore. Sure I was a runaway but not because of some horrible trauma in my life or unbridled hate for my parents. No, nothing typical of a runaway was present at the core. I simply shed off my old life with no hesitation. Somewhere along the line, I had realized that just because they're my flesh and blood doesn't make me unconditionally love them. They tried their best with me. We got into fights but for the most part my departing must have been cold steel across their necks. They had no way of foreseeing it. I just thought that my parents were weak as humans and my life uneventful so I went in search of something else. I found Riddick.
Slowly I was making the transition from my masked self to the version of Jack that I used for the people and maybe, just maybe, if Riddick was who I thought he was, I would reveal all of myself to him.
He groaned in the pilots seat -- it was a sound not meant to be heard, but I, somehow, plucked it out from among the skiff's humming and Imam's clanking beads. It had vibrated though the air molecules and traveled on top of the dust swirling around the ancient skiff and landed with purpose in my ear. I thought what the right reaction should be, and I decided on sharply whipping my head towards him while plastering a fearful look on my face.
"Are you okay?"
Riddick's silvery gaze shadowed as he regarded me. Probably assessing if I could somehow relieve the thumping pain in his leg. He scoffed.
"Does it matter?"
I wondered why he thought so little of himself. But than again he might have just been very good at playing a role everyone expected him to play.
I quietly got up and searched for the primitive first aid. As soon as I found it, I hid the smile and slumped my shoulders. I walked back to the ghost sitting and asked him unobtrusively to remove his pants. He didn't even hesitate, and I made a show of not letting my gaze wander. I stared intently at the gash and could feel frustration coming from Riddick that I remained unaffected by his semi-naked lower half. He craved the upper hand -- in any situation. I could understand that . . . .
Vulnerability is the blush that forms when you flinch from a slap when it's really a hug.
No type of work appealed to me and having to clean a bloody cut was no different. As I cleansed it, I let my hand brush against the unaffected area of his thigh. It was powerful. I made it seem like an unconscious act -- an innocent act, but inside the black bug that was me tittered on the edge anticipating a reaction from Riddick. Just as impassive as my face was, my swirling, chaotic soul was equally as joyful. The witch in me cackled. The wolf howled. And the dark angel uncoiled its wings and flew in a blinding circle of triumph.
Riddick put his pants back on and didn't bother with any thank you's. Apparently, my help wasn't worthy of acknowledgment. However, I needed conversation because I had no leverage. My skills of unwrapping people's psyches like candy were useless if they didn't talk at all. Venturing boldly, I asked a question.
"How many people have you killed?" Ever the hero-worshipper, wasn't I?
I don't know if I expected him to actually answer, but if he didn't, I could all ready feel the hard knot of dread in my stomach. I couldn't be defeated.
He stared off into space and the muscles in his face contracted giving me the illusion of deep thought. "I never counted."
I adored that answer. If that answer was a drop of blood on the floor, I would have lapped it up. It meant he had killed many. His charm went up. The emotion that coursed through me was not sexual though; it was attraction nonetheless. I would have given up a lot at that moment for some decent clothes and my long dark brown hair back. Looking like a twelve year old boy was starting to have its disadvantages. My hands found each other, and I clasped them together to keep from touching Riddick. Never in my life had I such an impulse. Touch usually repelled me. I couldn't satisfy that urge though . . . at least not until I was positive I had Riddick nailed down, roped up, and turned about.
Riddick was to become the embodiment of my dark fantasies, impish perceptions, and sick experiment.
I stared out the window, at the whirlpool of vivid colored space gases combining with dull, jagged rocks. The skiff was a speck in the universe. A crumb and yet Imam prayed for the safety of the killer and me, a child cloaked in lies and deception, to land on a planet no bigger than a pebble for the universe. I liked being in space. Planet's seemed too claustrophobic for me. Constantly, I thought that one day a planet would be failed by gravity and go plunging into . . . nothing, I presumed. If that ever happened, there would be no savior or light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes I fantasized about that being my death.
I was not surprised that Carolyn and all the others died. Apprehension for Imam clouded my thoughts. I half expected him to keel over from a heart attack, but I was glad to have someone to talk to. Riddick grew wary of me. It was almost like he started to realize I was more than I showcased. He never fully guessed the wickedness buried deep in me, but he felt something was disturbingly off. All for the better though because I couldn't act like little runaway Jack anymore. Sure I was a runaway but not because of some horrible trauma in my life or unbridled hate for my parents. No, nothing typical of a runaway was present at the core. I simply shed off my old life with no hesitation. Somewhere along the line, I had realized that just because they're my flesh and blood doesn't make me unconditionally love them. They tried their best with me. We got into fights but for the most part my departing must have been cold steel across their necks. They had no way of foreseeing it. I just thought that my parents were weak as humans and my life uneventful so I went in search of something else. I found Riddick.
Slowly I was making the transition from my masked self to the version of Jack that I used for the people and maybe, just maybe, if Riddick was who I thought he was, I would reveal all of myself to him.
He groaned in the pilots seat -- it was a sound not meant to be heard, but I, somehow, plucked it out from among the skiff's humming and Imam's clanking beads. It had vibrated though the air molecules and traveled on top of the dust swirling around the ancient skiff and landed with purpose in my ear. I thought what the right reaction should be, and I decided on sharply whipping my head towards him while plastering a fearful look on my face.
"Are you okay?"
Riddick's silvery gaze shadowed as he regarded me. Probably assessing if I could somehow relieve the thumping pain in his leg. He scoffed.
"Does it matter?"
I wondered why he thought so little of himself. But than again he might have just been very good at playing a role everyone expected him to play.
I quietly got up and searched for the primitive first aid. As soon as I found it, I hid the smile and slumped my shoulders. I walked back to the ghost sitting and asked him unobtrusively to remove his pants. He didn't even hesitate, and I made a show of not letting my gaze wander. I stared intently at the gash and could feel frustration coming from Riddick that I remained unaffected by his semi-naked lower half. He craved the upper hand -- in any situation. I could understand that . . . .
Vulnerability is the blush that forms when you flinch from a slap when it's really a hug.
No type of work appealed to me and having to clean a bloody cut was no different. As I cleansed it, I let my hand brush against the unaffected area of his thigh. It was powerful. I made it seem like an unconscious act -- an innocent act, but inside the black bug that was me tittered on the edge anticipating a reaction from Riddick. Just as impassive as my face was, my swirling, chaotic soul was equally as joyful. The witch in me cackled. The wolf howled. And the dark angel uncoiled its wings and flew in a blinding circle of triumph.
Riddick put his pants back on and didn't bother with any thank you's. Apparently, my help wasn't worthy of acknowledgment. However, I needed conversation because I had no leverage. My skills of unwrapping people's psyches like candy were useless if they didn't talk at all. Venturing boldly, I asked a question.
"How many people have you killed?" Ever the hero-worshipper, wasn't I?
I don't know if I expected him to actually answer, but if he didn't, I could all ready feel the hard knot of dread in my stomach. I couldn't be defeated.
He stared off into space and the muscles in his face contracted giving me the illusion of deep thought. "I never counted."
I adored that answer. If that answer was a drop of blood on the floor, I would have lapped it up. It meant he had killed many. His charm went up. The emotion that coursed through me was not sexual though; it was attraction nonetheless. I would have given up a lot at that moment for some decent clothes and my long dark brown hair back. Looking like a twelve year old boy was starting to have its disadvantages. My hands found each other, and I clasped them together to keep from touching Riddick. Never in my life had I such an impulse. Touch usually repelled me. I couldn't satisfy that urge though . . . at least not until I was positive I had Riddick nailed down, roped up, and turned about.
Riddick was to become the embodiment of my dark fantasies, impish perceptions, and sick experiment.