::: CHAPTER SIX :::
I had to force the salty drops to sliver their way down my cheeks. I don't know why I thought tears would affect the unfeeling man. Instead of receiving comfort from Riddick, I had holy Imam clucking around me like a worried mother hen. There were a lot of hugs involved, which forced me to stop crying. Opportunistic moments were dwindling, and I felt the beam under my feet shift.
The skiff had made it to Verity on Sector 3 of a bluish planet made up of fifty percent water. I thought it quite ironic -- 'verity' . . . I had landed on a planet named for truth, and I was its evil twin -- distortion. Worry was hidden deep in my bones and with each passing day it became thicker -- to the point where I actually felt my bones crack and the enamel peel off of them. I had to lose Imam and gain myself one frightening escaped convict. And I had to do it fast.
The only thing I had to fall back on was my status as an adolescent girl. With that in mind, I knew that my actions wouldn't be judged too harshly. I vaguely remembered a girl in my tenth grade class, who had gotten pregnant, and after sour blows to her morality and purity received pretty balloons and presents wrapped in shiny gauze, held together by bows that just reminded me of the itching yarn around my neck. If age was the only thing I could grasp, then hell I was going to milk it for all its worth.
As soon as we had landed, Riddick wanted to take off. That's when I had forced myself to cry. Trickling toxins down my cheek, I believed, would crack the glass around Riddick's heart and afflict him with an emotion that while close to pity isn't quite the same -- sympathy. Riddick instead became irritated with each passing tear. He told me to stop crying and made some comment about the little match girl, who cried till she died. Neglect and forgotten bitterness was interlaced with those words. Apparently, he didn't know how to care and the only reference he could conjure up was from a fairy tale that was probably read to him as a child, not to soothe but to show the repercussions of not combating for your own survival. To me it just screamed of residual humanity. Riddick left without another word, leaving Imam and me staring at his retreating form.
The story was to be that Riddick died on that planet and the only survivors were Imam and me. We were relentlessly questioned. After being on a small skiff for a whole week the last thing I needed was to click to normal mode for the police. There was no doubt though that I had the story straight. I knew word for word what Riddick had told me and my acting ability all ready honed, I was able to make the police stop suspecting foul play in less than a week. The police then helped Imam contact family and friends. Some money was sent to him until the next flight out to New Mecca, which was in six months. Six months of undiluted holy fun, I thought. If I prayed, I would have asked God to kill Imam.
Imam decided that a little girl like me shouldn't be left to her own devices, as I knew he would. What he didn't know was that I could disappear faster than he could perform a good deed. Imam's downfall was his noble heart. He wouldn't allow something, anything to happen to me . . . especially after so narrowly escaping death on a planet with veins of blue blood.
Riddick appeared to us not much later though. Three months later to be exact. I knew he would. He had no money, and he was too smart to commit a felony after the bounty on his head was lowered. Lowered not taken off. He met with Imam outside the hotel, and Imam had hurriedly brought him in, while I was sitting crossed leg on the bed.
I was sorting out my thoughts and busying myself with mundane poses. As soon as the door opened and Riddick stepped in, I felt a change in the lifeless room. The walls dripped with condensed water, and the breeze coming through the window was too much. I walked up and shut it and then rubbing my fingers over my arms, enjoying the feel of goosebumps, I turned back to Riddick.
I immediately noticed he was staring quite intently at me. This was uncomfortable. I was the one that did the analyzing. I could tell he saw something different in me. The only problem was I didn't know if all he saw was that I was no longer dressed as a boy and that I hadn't shaved my head again or the fact that on a beautiful day all I wanted to do was sit on the enormous bed and listen to the walls dripping imaginary rain. Self-consciously, I crossed my arms and grabbed my shoulders while leaning against the wall. The best way to keep my thoughts closed from him was to think of unimportant concerns. I thought about the weight I had lost, the boniness of my shoulder blades, the circles under my eyes . . . . Riddick had caught me off guard, and all I could do was stare at him, the floor, and the wall while switching between thoughts of self-pity and paranoia.
That was all but a second.
Imam shuffled somewhere behind Riddick, and he snapped back as if just realizing we were not alone. Imam regarded me as a precious, insignificant baby at that very moment. He explained that Riddick would be staying with us for a few days, while a "friend" of his wires him stolen money. I shrugged needing to appear indifferent. Inside though, my blood turned black and a screeching, hollow sound could be heard from within my ribcage. This sound being the proverbial demon digging its way out from the murky depths it had been pushed down in.
Riddick stayed in our room, and I wasn't going to let a great opportunity pass.
I "woke" from my slumber. In reality, I had never even fallen asleep. What I had done was slow my breathing as I had self-taught myself long ago. Instead of chasing fireflies and shadowboxing, I had learned to control my breathing . . . that was the kind of child I was. My muscles unclenched and my heart slowed. I had to stay that way for a good three hours. Then in the quietest of moments, I let a piercing scream escape my lips. Riddick sat up just as I let the first sound croak out. It was as if he heard it forming in my throat and was awake before it left. His head snapped to me, and I let a cloud of confusion and hysteria placate itself on my features.
His voice was raspy from sleep.
"Nightmare?"
I vigorously nodded my head and before he could ask what the hell I was doing, I threw the rough blanket off me. The long shirt I was wearing rode up my legs and as I slid across the bed, it inched further up. My naked feet touched the carpet, and I curled my toes into it. Then using my hands, I pushed off and tumbled in a ball of awkward limbs and skinny arms into Riddick's bed and him. My elbow hit him in the stomach, and he groaned. I quickly encircled my arms around his waist and placed my head sweetly over his bare chest, right over his heart. Then using the force of momentum, I pushed him down so half of my body was lying on top of his. I shuddered as if some distant remnant from my nightmare was still attached to me. Riddick's body was tense and his arms didn't curl around me. I was anticipating small steps though. He must have known that it would be futile to detach himself from me so he allowed my breath to brush across the expanse of his chest and my tiny fingers to clutch around his sides.
I made quite a show of acting scared and needing levels of protection. He must have felt pride in my trusting him. The first step of my plan was complete. I had made him feel needed and strong. For that night, I was the kite and he was the wind holding me up. He warded off the nonexistent terrors in my mind and allowed me to find comfort in not being alone. He slept and I pretended to, always sneaking glances at his face and marveling at the scent of a man; it was much different from what I thought it would be. So intoxicating . . . so freeing . . . so wearied. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't just a semblance of the truth.
I had to force the salty drops to sliver their way down my cheeks. I don't know why I thought tears would affect the unfeeling man. Instead of receiving comfort from Riddick, I had holy Imam clucking around me like a worried mother hen. There were a lot of hugs involved, which forced me to stop crying. Opportunistic moments were dwindling, and I felt the beam under my feet shift.
The skiff had made it to Verity on Sector 3 of a bluish planet made up of fifty percent water. I thought it quite ironic -- 'verity' . . . I had landed on a planet named for truth, and I was its evil twin -- distortion. Worry was hidden deep in my bones and with each passing day it became thicker -- to the point where I actually felt my bones crack and the enamel peel off of them. I had to lose Imam and gain myself one frightening escaped convict. And I had to do it fast.
The only thing I had to fall back on was my status as an adolescent girl. With that in mind, I knew that my actions wouldn't be judged too harshly. I vaguely remembered a girl in my tenth grade class, who had gotten pregnant, and after sour blows to her morality and purity received pretty balloons and presents wrapped in shiny gauze, held together by bows that just reminded me of the itching yarn around my neck. If age was the only thing I could grasp, then hell I was going to milk it for all its worth.
As soon as we had landed, Riddick wanted to take off. That's when I had forced myself to cry. Trickling toxins down my cheek, I believed, would crack the glass around Riddick's heart and afflict him with an emotion that while close to pity isn't quite the same -- sympathy. Riddick instead became irritated with each passing tear. He told me to stop crying and made some comment about the little match girl, who cried till she died. Neglect and forgotten bitterness was interlaced with those words. Apparently, he didn't know how to care and the only reference he could conjure up was from a fairy tale that was probably read to him as a child, not to soothe but to show the repercussions of not combating for your own survival. To me it just screamed of residual humanity. Riddick left without another word, leaving Imam and me staring at his retreating form.
The story was to be that Riddick died on that planet and the only survivors were Imam and me. We were relentlessly questioned. After being on a small skiff for a whole week the last thing I needed was to click to normal mode for the police. There was no doubt though that I had the story straight. I knew word for word what Riddick had told me and my acting ability all ready honed, I was able to make the police stop suspecting foul play in less than a week. The police then helped Imam contact family and friends. Some money was sent to him until the next flight out to New Mecca, which was in six months. Six months of undiluted holy fun, I thought. If I prayed, I would have asked God to kill Imam.
Imam decided that a little girl like me shouldn't be left to her own devices, as I knew he would. What he didn't know was that I could disappear faster than he could perform a good deed. Imam's downfall was his noble heart. He wouldn't allow something, anything to happen to me . . . especially after so narrowly escaping death on a planet with veins of blue blood.
Riddick appeared to us not much later though. Three months later to be exact. I knew he would. He had no money, and he was too smart to commit a felony after the bounty on his head was lowered. Lowered not taken off. He met with Imam outside the hotel, and Imam had hurriedly brought him in, while I was sitting crossed leg on the bed.
I was sorting out my thoughts and busying myself with mundane poses. As soon as the door opened and Riddick stepped in, I felt a change in the lifeless room. The walls dripped with condensed water, and the breeze coming through the window was too much. I walked up and shut it and then rubbing my fingers over my arms, enjoying the feel of goosebumps, I turned back to Riddick.
I immediately noticed he was staring quite intently at me. This was uncomfortable. I was the one that did the analyzing. I could tell he saw something different in me. The only problem was I didn't know if all he saw was that I was no longer dressed as a boy and that I hadn't shaved my head again or the fact that on a beautiful day all I wanted to do was sit on the enormous bed and listen to the walls dripping imaginary rain. Self-consciously, I crossed my arms and grabbed my shoulders while leaning against the wall. The best way to keep my thoughts closed from him was to think of unimportant concerns. I thought about the weight I had lost, the boniness of my shoulder blades, the circles under my eyes . . . . Riddick had caught me off guard, and all I could do was stare at him, the floor, and the wall while switching between thoughts of self-pity and paranoia.
That was all but a second.
Imam shuffled somewhere behind Riddick, and he snapped back as if just realizing we were not alone. Imam regarded me as a precious, insignificant baby at that very moment. He explained that Riddick would be staying with us for a few days, while a "friend" of his wires him stolen money. I shrugged needing to appear indifferent. Inside though, my blood turned black and a screeching, hollow sound could be heard from within my ribcage. This sound being the proverbial demon digging its way out from the murky depths it had been pushed down in.
Riddick stayed in our room, and I wasn't going to let a great opportunity pass.
I "woke" from my slumber. In reality, I had never even fallen asleep. What I had done was slow my breathing as I had self-taught myself long ago. Instead of chasing fireflies and shadowboxing, I had learned to control my breathing . . . that was the kind of child I was. My muscles unclenched and my heart slowed. I had to stay that way for a good three hours. Then in the quietest of moments, I let a piercing scream escape my lips. Riddick sat up just as I let the first sound croak out. It was as if he heard it forming in my throat and was awake before it left. His head snapped to me, and I let a cloud of confusion and hysteria placate itself on my features.
His voice was raspy from sleep.
"Nightmare?"
I vigorously nodded my head and before he could ask what the hell I was doing, I threw the rough blanket off me. The long shirt I was wearing rode up my legs and as I slid across the bed, it inched further up. My naked feet touched the carpet, and I curled my toes into it. Then using my hands, I pushed off and tumbled in a ball of awkward limbs and skinny arms into Riddick's bed and him. My elbow hit him in the stomach, and he groaned. I quickly encircled my arms around his waist and placed my head sweetly over his bare chest, right over his heart. Then using the force of momentum, I pushed him down so half of my body was lying on top of his. I shuddered as if some distant remnant from my nightmare was still attached to me. Riddick's body was tense and his arms didn't curl around me. I was anticipating small steps though. He must have known that it would be futile to detach himself from me so he allowed my breath to brush across the expanse of his chest and my tiny fingers to clutch around his sides.
I made quite a show of acting scared and needing levels of protection. He must have felt pride in my trusting him. The first step of my plan was complete. I had made him feel needed and strong. For that night, I was the kite and he was the wind holding me up. He warded off the nonexistent terrors in my mind and allowed me to find comfort in not being alone. He slept and I pretended to, always sneaking glances at his face and marveling at the scent of a man; it was much different from what I thought it would be. So intoxicating . . . so freeing . . . so wearied. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't just a semblance of the truth.