::: CHAPTER ELEVEN :::
I had become a recluse inside my room -- a hermit. It was unlikely for me to see Riddick even once a week. The only time I ventured out was late at night, in the dark, to sneak food inside my dungeon. I was lucky to have a connected bathroom, or I might have had to encounter the shadow of the man that confused me so much. I really thought I had him pegged, but I was wrong. He was going to sell me to fucking slave traders, use the money to get out of dodge, and above all explicitly show how much he doesn't care about me, or at least the glazed over me he was familiar with. My bad luck was suddenly and painfully tangible once again, and I knew that not even the vastness of space was enough of a cushion between me and a million ghouls gripping for my soul, yet unharming my body.
I had found ways to entertain myself -- one has to when faced with eternal solitude. Using both hands, I would run them through my hair, massaging the scalp, searching for unknown stitches that would indicate an accident of some sort. I knew it was silly, yet for hours on end I did it. The room was also quickly filling up with multicolored slips of paper. I had taken to writing down anything worthwhile. I had a variety of lists -- ranging from boring subjects -- ' What are my Weaknesses? ' to racy ones -- ' Sexual Fantasies.' The purpose of them was to methodize my scattered musings and still I didn't bother categorizing the papers; they all just fell to the floor eventually and when I would find one that interested me, it would be covered in dust. I was scared of forgetting things I had never really known in the first place.
After three weeks, I was sure I had lost the little sanity I possessed. I had been alone for so long that I felt I could creep out of my skin and lay like the crawling creature that I was on the cold floor. However, the prospect of Riddick one day surprising me with an awkward visit kept me suffocated in layers of tissue, muscle, and skin. To exhibit to myself that I could be even crazier, I would walk around the ever-shrinking room with back hunched and face transforming into a vast selection of grotesque views. My arms would raise up slightly, and I would writhe my fingers as I had seen monsters do in old earth movies. This was conviction in its purest form.
One day, while lazily lounging on the bed tracing my rib cage and marveling at my frailty, I had an epiphany. I came to the conclusion that I strayed from the path. The path had been so clear. It had been littered with crystal orbs glowing black and puddles that were really just pits. I had to go back to the mission -- entrapping Riddick in my amber of sorrow. My life would never be complete without the company of a hopeless parasite to call my own.
I got to work. Using a brush I found on the bottom of the suitcase, I combed my slightly longer hair -- it now reached the nape of my neck -- and felt pride in its bounciness and natural waviness. I sat down on the bed and contemplated the different pieces of clothing that I had scattered on the floor below. The look I wanted was alluring, not whorey. I could never pull off whore anyway. The selection that I finally decided to go with consisted of a simple, loose black skirt that while solid color on top faded to sheer as it reached my ankles. It made me look put-together while at the same time being something I would wear curled up on the bed reading or pretending to sleep. The top was velvety and distinctly vest like. It buttoned up in the front, had a not so dangerous dip showcasing the milkiness of my neck and chest, and considering my lean figure fitted me quite snugly. The only pattern that could be seen in its deep burgundy was a wilting flower on the side with a lone petal falling. I looked in the mirror and quietly congratulated myself at finally looking my age and gender.
Riddick probably thinks I'm a virgin. The thought had entered my mind only at that moment, and I actually surprised myself by not thinking of it before. The truth, however, was that I had sex before -- once. It wasn't actually even sex for me -- it was more of a getting rid of the whole virginity thing; more like a carefully planned process. When I was fifteen, I took it upon myself to convince a fellow virgin, a seventeen year old boy, to break through the coveted barrier. Needless to say it didn't take too much convincing. The necessary precautions were taken, because no matter how brazen my act was I never took chances, and I had laid there naked for a full five minutes as the eager boy -- can't even remember his name -- unskillfully unburdened me of the one thing I didn't want, when I would have sex for "real" -- my disgusting innocence. Being a virgin would just diminish me in the eyes of my true lover and make me feel inadequate, I believed so I simply and calculatingly eliminated the stress.
My situation was surreal and my motives unclear, yet I supposed having sex with Riddick would constitute as real. After all he was a real person . . . entity . . . soul . . . man? Yes?
Maybe I should make a list of what is real.
I shook my head at the silly thought and outstretched myself on the bed waiting for midnight. At midnight, I would regain control once again and Riddick would finally realize that I was much more than a business transaction.
I had become a recluse inside my room -- a hermit. It was unlikely for me to see Riddick even once a week. The only time I ventured out was late at night, in the dark, to sneak food inside my dungeon. I was lucky to have a connected bathroom, or I might have had to encounter the shadow of the man that confused me so much. I really thought I had him pegged, but I was wrong. He was going to sell me to fucking slave traders, use the money to get out of dodge, and above all explicitly show how much he doesn't care about me, or at least the glazed over me he was familiar with. My bad luck was suddenly and painfully tangible once again, and I knew that not even the vastness of space was enough of a cushion between me and a million ghouls gripping for my soul, yet unharming my body.
I had found ways to entertain myself -- one has to when faced with eternal solitude. Using both hands, I would run them through my hair, massaging the scalp, searching for unknown stitches that would indicate an accident of some sort. I knew it was silly, yet for hours on end I did it. The room was also quickly filling up with multicolored slips of paper. I had taken to writing down anything worthwhile. I had a variety of lists -- ranging from boring subjects -- ' What are my Weaknesses? ' to racy ones -- ' Sexual Fantasies.' The purpose of them was to methodize my scattered musings and still I didn't bother categorizing the papers; they all just fell to the floor eventually and when I would find one that interested me, it would be covered in dust. I was scared of forgetting things I had never really known in the first place.
After three weeks, I was sure I had lost the little sanity I possessed. I had been alone for so long that I felt I could creep out of my skin and lay like the crawling creature that I was on the cold floor. However, the prospect of Riddick one day surprising me with an awkward visit kept me suffocated in layers of tissue, muscle, and skin. To exhibit to myself that I could be even crazier, I would walk around the ever-shrinking room with back hunched and face transforming into a vast selection of grotesque views. My arms would raise up slightly, and I would writhe my fingers as I had seen monsters do in old earth movies. This was conviction in its purest form.
One day, while lazily lounging on the bed tracing my rib cage and marveling at my frailty, I had an epiphany. I came to the conclusion that I strayed from the path. The path had been so clear. It had been littered with crystal orbs glowing black and puddles that were really just pits. I had to go back to the mission -- entrapping Riddick in my amber of sorrow. My life would never be complete without the company of a hopeless parasite to call my own.
I got to work. Using a brush I found on the bottom of the suitcase, I combed my slightly longer hair -- it now reached the nape of my neck -- and felt pride in its bounciness and natural waviness. I sat down on the bed and contemplated the different pieces of clothing that I had scattered on the floor below. The look I wanted was alluring, not whorey. I could never pull off whore anyway. The selection that I finally decided to go with consisted of a simple, loose black skirt that while solid color on top faded to sheer as it reached my ankles. It made me look put-together while at the same time being something I would wear curled up on the bed reading or pretending to sleep. The top was velvety and distinctly vest like. It buttoned up in the front, had a not so dangerous dip showcasing the milkiness of my neck and chest, and considering my lean figure fitted me quite snugly. The only pattern that could be seen in its deep burgundy was a wilting flower on the side with a lone petal falling. I looked in the mirror and quietly congratulated myself at finally looking my age and gender.
Riddick probably thinks I'm a virgin. The thought had entered my mind only at that moment, and I actually surprised myself by not thinking of it before. The truth, however, was that I had sex before -- once. It wasn't actually even sex for me -- it was more of a getting rid of the whole virginity thing; more like a carefully planned process. When I was fifteen, I took it upon myself to convince a fellow virgin, a seventeen year old boy, to break through the coveted barrier. Needless to say it didn't take too much convincing. The necessary precautions were taken, because no matter how brazen my act was I never took chances, and I had laid there naked for a full five minutes as the eager boy -- can't even remember his name -- unskillfully unburdened me of the one thing I didn't want, when I would have sex for "real" -- my disgusting innocence. Being a virgin would just diminish me in the eyes of my true lover and make me feel inadequate, I believed so I simply and calculatingly eliminated the stress.
My situation was surreal and my motives unclear, yet I supposed having sex with Riddick would constitute as real. After all he was a real person . . . entity . . . soul . . . man? Yes?
Maybe I should make a list of what is real.
I shook my head at the silly thought and outstretched myself on the bed waiting for midnight. At midnight, I would regain control once again and Riddick would finally realize that I was much more than a business transaction.