::: CHAPTER FOURTEEN :::
Poison. The word had dark, romantic vibrations. It was almost poetic -- something straight from the gloomy world of Emily Bronte. I couldn't believe the idea hadn't caress the still functioning shallow waves of my consciousness before. When it did, however, graze my armored psyche, it had snapped me back to my psychosis so fast that the world became white, stripped of color. Everything smelled of sterilization and oppression and when my hands touched my face, checking if I was still there, my skin felt immensely young and vulnerable. I didn't like that. That charade was supposed to be just for Riddick . . . . It was an illusion not a reality. My routine with Riddick had gone far enough; I couldn't continue living a lie with him and pretend that his destination wasn't my doom. With each passing star, we came closer to the personified steel bars that would restrain me for a lifetime, usually being until I reached the age of twenty-two or the slave owner tired of me. And then where would I be? I would just be a fucking shell. No, I was a shell now -- I would be a snail's crushed hull, oozing with the tiny creature's broken membrane and trailing behind the feeble thing still trying to crawl away from sure calamity. Not a pretty sight.
Instinct forced me to snap from my stupor but choice guided my decisions.
Riddick and I had fallen into a comfortable "relationship" after my little bathroom episode. We had not had sex again, but we had found other numerous ways to satisfy ourselves. It had never been about the naked act of intercourse, anyway; it had always been the idea of it -- the tantalizing prospect of actually finding someone to express dark eroticism to. Through our gestures and cunning dances we had entangled ourselves to a promise of never letting the other lead. For a whole week the promise hadn't been broken but now nearing Zemi, I had to shift the power once again. Quite a shame too because I was getting comfortable with the drab monotony of habit.
I hate to admit it but the past week with Riddick had been possibly the best of my life. I had received all that was needed to keep me in revelry. It was absolutely beautiful. My strange abilities all had a well-fitting place when Riddick was around. Every single one of my eccentric talents had a chance to come out and play. And it was all due to Riddick's presence. I really should have thanked him if I knew how. Doesn't matter anyway -- he's such a bastard.
I had taken to sleeping with him in his bed. He didn't mind so why should I? Even though by then I was convinced my flirtations would have absolutely no affect on his decision of selling me, sheer "Jack nature" kept me maneuvering his emotions and trying to provoke him into uncontrollable want for me. This want was always temporary and never intense enough to lead to us writhing in his enormous bed. This was also another point for me though because I knew Riddick held back for the sole fear of not being able to part with me when the time came. Yet, unobtrusively I continued my exaggerated animations that only caused his curiosity of me to rise.
When we laid in bed together, I would snuggle close to him and pretend just for him that I was cute, innocent Jack -- someone he could protect, for my twisted mind had latched on to the fact Riddick had never been wanted in his whole life. I made him wanted. As I burrowed under the fluffy blankets and stretched like a cat, I always made sure to turn droopy eyes to him, murmur as if still half asleep, and let my bare legs graze him. I would reach out for him in my pretend dream state, and he would enfold me in his powerful arms, while his head became buried in my berry smelling hair. We were both content with this mirage. Sometimes I would whisper to him right before he was to fall asleep. But I always said disturbing things like "It doesn't matter that you're selling me, Riddick . . . really . . . I still lov --" But before I could finish, a yawn would be bestowed on me by the dream fairies and out of squinting eyes I would gauge Riddick's reaction. He never looked startled, but he never went back to sleep either.
On some level, he knew I was fucking with him, but he never fought it. Must've been guilt. When we were back at the hotel, he didn't even think twice about friskily molesting me after my little "rub-tease," but here on the ship he just seemed to shrug his shoulders and allow me my games. It was like he knew it would make no difference in the big picture, but I also liked to think he enjoyed my company -- bizarre company that could rival his own. I knew, in a closed part of me, that Riddick also found pleasure with me being around. In his very nature was the demand to examine others . . . and what better subject than an aberrant little beast like me? He would certainly feel the loss if I was sold to a slave owner. The only problem was that I wouldn't be the one that would be gone.
To keep him on his toes, I also liked to lounge places where he could trip over me. Once, I was on the floor outside his bedroom door, just listening to the quiet inside when the door had whooshed open and an amused, surprised Riddick looked down at me.
"What are you doing down there, kid?" he had asked.
I smiled up at him, crossing my hands behind my head. Spitting image of devious innocence. "Oh. Nothing. Just enjoying the view."
He just gave me a hard, borderline stern look and stepped over me, carefully. Can't have him stepping on jagged glass.
I swore I could hear him mutter cockily something that sounded strangely like, "Enjoy this view," as he walked away.
Thinking of times like this, elated me and made me feel accepted. But the bitter truth was that we were only a week away from Zemi and this would all soon end. Sure, Riddick was acting and maybe even feeling an ambience to me but his stubborn disposition would never allow him to admit that another being could fit so well with his unique soul. So it all boiled down to him or me, and it definitely wasn't going to be me.
So that's how the idea of poison had treaded through the murky water and landed gracefully on my chest. And it had not shifted until I gave it notice and approved its guileful plan. I had waited for Riddick to change his mind and heroically declare me an invaluable part of his existence and venously refuse to sell me. But that never came.
See, in the dark, when we were sleeping in each others arms, there wasn't anything else in our way. There we could stop pretending -- there I knew I was filled with lunacy, and he knew he was empty enough to accept just some of that dementia and make me feel balanced. Hell, in the pitch-black Riddick even confided in me, of course he thought I was asleep but, nonetheless, I would hear his raspy voice whisper "sorry." The first time I had heard him say "my mistake," I almost cried -- real tears. But once the harsh artificial lights came on, we were once again flesh and blood -- all vulnerable tendons and veins. And Riddick would never utter those words he did in the inky black.
But I knew . . . I knew . . . and that absolute truth made the decision to poison Riddick even more difficult.
Poison. The word had dark, romantic vibrations. It was almost poetic -- something straight from the gloomy world of Emily Bronte. I couldn't believe the idea hadn't caress the still functioning shallow waves of my consciousness before. When it did, however, graze my armored psyche, it had snapped me back to my psychosis so fast that the world became white, stripped of color. Everything smelled of sterilization and oppression and when my hands touched my face, checking if I was still there, my skin felt immensely young and vulnerable. I didn't like that. That charade was supposed to be just for Riddick . . . . It was an illusion not a reality. My routine with Riddick had gone far enough; I couldn't continue living a lie with him and pretend that his destination wasn't my doom. With each passing star, we came closer to the personified steel bars that would restrain me for a lifetime, usually being until I reached the age of twenty-two or the slave owner tired of me. And then where would I be? I would just be a fucking shell. No, I was a shell now -- I would be a snail's crushed hull, oozing with the tiny creature's broken membrane and trailing behind the feeble thing still trying to crawl away from sure calamity. Not a pretty sight.
Instinct forced me to snap from my stupor but choice guided my decisions.
Riddick and I had fallen into a comfortable "relationship" after my little bathroom episode. We had not had sex again, but we had found other numerous ways to satisfy ourselves. It had never been about the naked act of intercourse, anyway; it had always been the idea of it -- the tantalizing prospect of actually finding someone to express dark eroticism to. Through our gestures and cunning dances we had entangled ourselves to a promise of never letting the other lead. For a whole week the promise hadn't been broken but now nearing Zemi, I had to shift the power once again. Quite a shame too because I was getting comfortable with the drab monotony of habit.
I hate to admit it but the past week with Riddick had been possibly the best of my life. I had received all that was needed to keep me in revelry. It was absolutely beautiful. My strange abilities all had a well-fitting place when Riddick was around. Every single one of my eccentric talents had a chance to come out and play. And it was all due to Riddick's presence. I really should have thanked him if I knew how. Doesn't matter anyway -- he's such a bastard.
I had taken to sleeping with him in his bed. He didn't mind so why should I? Even though by then I was convinced my flirtations would have absolutely no affect on his decision of selling me, sheer "Jack nature" kept me maneuvering his emotions and trying to provoke him into uncontrollable want for me. This want was always temporary and never intense enough to lead to us writhing in his enormous bed. This was also another point for me though because I knew Riddick held back for the sole fear of not being able to part with me when the time came. Yet, unobtrusively I continued my exaggerated animations that only caused his curiosity of me to rise.
When we laid in bed together, I would snuggle close to him and pretend just for him that I was cute, innocent Jack -- someone he could protect, for my twisted mind had latched on to the fact Riddick had never been wanted in his whole life. I made him wanted. As I burrowed under the fluffy blankets and stretched like a cat, I always made sure to turn droopy eyes to him, murmur as if still half asleep, and let my bare legs graze him. I would reach out for him in my pretend dream state, and he would enfold me in his powerful arms, while his head became buried in my berry smelling hair. We were both content with this mirage. Sometimes I would whisper to him right before he was to fall asleep. But I always said disturbing things like "It doesn't matter that you're selling me, Riddick . . . really . . . I still lov --" But before I could finish, a yawn would be bestowed on me by the dream fairies and out of squinting eyes I would gauge Riddick's reaction. He never looked startled, but he never went back to sleep either.
On some level, he knew I was fucking with him, but he never fought it. Must've been guilt. When we were back at the hotel, he didn't even think twice about friskily molesting me after my little "rub-tease," but here on the ship he just seemed to shrug his shoulders and allow me my games. It was like he knew it would make no difference in the big picture, but I also liked to think he enjoyed my company -- bizarre company that could rival his own. I knew, in a closed part of me, that Riddick also found pleasure with me being around. In his very nature was the demand to examine others . . . and what better subject than an aberrant little beast like me? He would certainly feel the loss if I was sold to a slave owner. The only problem was that I wouldn't be the one that would be gone.
To keep him on his toes, I also liked to lounge places where he could trip over me. Once, I was on the floor outside his bedroom door, just listening to the quiet inside when the door had whooshed open and an amused, surprised Riddick looked down at me.
"What are you doing down there, kid?" he had asked.
I smiled up at him, crossing my hands behind my head. Spitting image of devious innocence. "Oh. Nothing. Just enjoying the view."
He just gave me a hard, borderline stern look and stepped over me, carefully. Can't have him stepping on jagged glass.
I swore I could hear him mutter cockily something that sounded strangely like, "Enjoy this view," as he walked away.
Thinking of times like this, elated me and made me feel accepted. But the bitter truth was that we were only a week away from Zemi and this would all soon end. Sure, Riddick was acting and maybe even feeling an ambience to me but his stubborn disposition would never allow him to admit that another being could fit so well with his unique soul. So it all boiled down to him or me, and it definitely wasn't going to be me.
So that's how the idea of poison had treaded through the murky water and landed gracefully on my chest. And it had not shifted until I gave it notice and approved its guileful plan. I had waited for Riddick to change his mind and heroically declare me an invaluable part of his existence and venously refuse to sell me. But that never came.
See, in the dark, when we were sleeping in each others arms, there wasn't anything else in our way. There we could stop pretending -- there I knew I was filled with lunacy, and he knew he was empty enough to accept just some of that dementia and make me feel balanced. Hell, in the pitch-black Riddick even confided in me, of course he thought I was asleep but, nonetheless, I would hear his raspy voice whisper "sorry." The first time I had heard him say "my mistake," I almost cried -- real tears. But once the harsh artificial lights came on, we were once again flesh and blood -- all vulnerable tendons and veins. And Riddick would never utter those words he did in the inky black.
But I knew . . . I knew . . . and that absolute truth made the decision to poison Riddick even more difficult.