::: CHAPTER FIFTEEN :::
It started as a regular day. When I woke up, I was completely on top of Riddick's chest -- my back to him -- moving up and down with his steady breathing. I had taken my time to wake him. First, I raised one arm in the air, staring at my wriggling fingers and marveling at how much power they held in their thin bones. As I gazed, my vision focused and unfocused between the space of my fingers, and I watched, fascinated, the play of shadow and light. My lips formed silent words. The words were random and each was there to show their non importance, until I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, mouthing "Riddick." The word remained unarticulated, until the moment I used my voiceless fingers to stroke Riddick's neck. As I did that, I also snuggled into him, willing his hands to nuzzle me back. Nestled in his arms, running my hand over his scalp, I waited for him to come fully awake and when he did, he would abruptly stop his explorations of my soft stomach or whatever part he had been caressing, and I would quickly find myself rolled to the glacial atmosphere that existed on the unoccupied side of the bed. At this I would pout and gently cross my arms over my chest. I wasn't really angry or offended, but I enjoyed to amplify the guilt between Riddick and I.
Then the obligatory "talk" came. It always crept up and surprised me. In the quiet of Riddick's bedroom and the loud clamor of my mind, I never quite expected the stable tones of Riddick's voice, directed towards me. It always jarred the hard achieved equilibrium in me.
The "talk" varied but the message was always the same.
"Jack, you need to stop sleeping in my bed."
I nibbled at my nail, grooming. "Why?" I chirped.
I distinctly heard Riddick sigh, as I saw him run a hand over his head. "Because you won't change my mind."
"Huh?" I knew what he was talking about but indifference always felt better on me.
"About Zemi," his voice rasped.
"Oh." I finally looked at him, making my eyes sparkle with emotion. "It's okay . . . I'm just enjoying the last few moments I have with you . . . and of freedom."
Riddick laughed, amused at my blatant guilt manipulation. "What happened to getting away from me?" He finally looked straight at me. "Do you still want that?"
Was that hurt in his voice?
Hopefully.
I conjured up my best catholic school girl grin and replied with, "Yes, of course," as if it was no huge revelation. I shrugged. "But I'm not stupid. If this is gonna be my last few days of liberty, I'm at least gonna enjoy it."
"So, that's how it is?" Riddick ran a hand along my leg, that had somehow slipped out from under the security of the blanket. "You're just relaxing till I give you over to someone else?" He squeezed my knee.
Damn those hands. I swallowed the purr that was forming deep in my throat and slowly pulled my leg back under the covers. Riddick was once again underestimating my ability to block myself off and live in my own ideals. "Yes, Riddick -- that's how it is. You want to sell me . . . fine, but don't expect me to shine with happiness."
"Fine. But Jack --" He smirked at my calm face "-- next time you crawl into my bed don't expect me to warm you."
He swiftly got up, giving me a great view of the muscles of his back contracting, as he walked out to make breakfast. I lazily threw a pillow somewhere in his vicinity and stretched out on the bed. Too bad Riddick has no idea what is coming his way today, I thought sadly. I knew what I was going to do was evil, but what choices did I have? I mean how did he expect me to remember fleeting emotions from long ago, when living in a strange world full of twists and turns that just ended with me being hurt in some way?
I couldn't quite pinpoint why I was such a vortex of weakness in the face of challenges. Was it because I cared only for myself? Because I had such a rigid view on the way things should be done and could accept no compromise? Because I saw no one thing important enough to finish or even consider? Was it because inside I was angered by the little things and not the normal worries?
What was wrong with me? Being around Riddick caused this question to pop up more often than I liked. I never wanted to kill anyone, but I had to ask myself which was worse -- selling someone to a lifetime of bondage and torment or murdering someone to escape that fate? I made my decision in a second -- it never took me long to be clear on what had to be done. I was slow in taking the hard way and by nature I was idle but when I felt the weight of time pressing on my shoulders, my whole essence awoke from its camatose state and ran on dark fuel, a gift from all my hate. Stress actually turned me on.
Knowing tragedy was so close that I could feel its lips on mine, I was roused from my coffin and forced by an unseen wind to preserve myself. However, that need would not have existed if my calamity was further away. Funny thing Time was. Time, something that doesn't even subsist in reality, had such impacts on me. I could feel Time coursing through my blood, expanding my muscles, and feeding my brain. Without its vast help, I would have absolutely no motivation. There would have been no deadlines, and I would just be a shapeless orb, interacting with the other energies -- all going in the opposite direction and bogging me down. I didn't deserve Time.
As my soul registered the fact that I was running out of Time, it became elevated and hopeful of Death, but when my mind registered the fact, it became frenzied and despondent . . . finding hope in the pangs of distress. Apparently, I liked self-destructing myself because with misery comes numbness. The weakness actually made me feel stronger, like no matter how bad it would get, it wouldn't matter for I was all ready intimate with many forms of affliction. It was a disease with me. And in my malady, I found amenity because I knew Destiny worked hand in hand with Time. So my fate wasn't at all up to me. Therefore, I knew in each stage I would be victorious and at the end of the . . . journey -- is that what it was? -- I would outlast all the pain because when I was complete -- no longer a work in progress -- I would be agony. Complete . . . agony. And I liked that.
Agony is strong and could kick joys ass. Those were the terms I thought in.
It can be compared to the peace one feels when they're falling through the air, plummeting to sure death, and then jolting back to actuality only to realize it was all a dream. Relief. Yes, that's what it was -- relief in sorrow. Flawless delight in the repressive dark, that allowed me to be content and familiar with all lighter shades of dusk, pointing and laughing at the depression of others. Having experienced ultimate dark . . . shadows didn't seem so bad; they were a gift actually. Hidden from view, I was unbound from the rules, allowing me thoughts others blushed at, and I didn't expect or even want dawn to encase me in its insufferable glow. In that rough aurora, all the scars would become visible and then people would know the ones that been hurt the most, rendering them pitiful and untouchable. Or even worse the clear skinned ones, with no injuries, would try to offer help. I did not need that; I could tend, or more likely not, to my own wounds.
I got out of bed, not bothering to change out of my night shorts and tee, and made my way to the ground level of the ship -- maintenance. Once there, I searched for the tiny gel capsules I knew every ship has to combat against foreign, microscopic bacteria that might live on board. The capsules basically gave off a poisonous chemical that terminates the life of any alien agents that seeped in from space. However, a whole capsule, dissolved, would prove deadly for even larger organisms. I reached the metal cabinet against the corner and opened the door. Inside, in a glass jar the blue capsules were clearly visible and seemed to be glowing at me. I gently lowered a hand in and plucked one out. Holding it up to my nose, I tried to detect any unpleasant odor. Thankfully, there was none. I rolled it around my fingers before tucking it in the little pocket of my shorts.
I plopped down at the kitchen table and looked nervously over my shoulder where Riddick was preparing something to eat for us. I irregularly plucked at the tiny bump near my abdomen while staring intently at Riddick's coffee, that seemed to be glaring at me from across the table. All I had to do was slip the deadly poison into the cup and watch as Riddick's neck muscles swallowed down his Death. I could sense him finishing so I quickly extracted the contaminator and before my fingers released it into the drink, I swore that its venom attached to the swirling ridges of my fingers and if I were to lick one digit, I would quickly pass away. I subconsciously rubbed my hand on my shirt as if that could cleanse me.
The loudness of the plate as it was put in front of me startled me from my musings. Riddick gave me a quizzical look before rapidly wiping away the expression and sitting with his own plate across from me. I looked down at the scrambled eggs and wanted to immediately push the food away. I tugged at a lock of hair absent-mindedly and picked up a fork, using it to play with my food. Riddick on the other hand had no problem with his scrambled eggs, and I realized too late that my eyes were narrowed at him as if accusing him of something.
"No good?" he asked.
In a mental panic, I couldn't figure out what the question was pertaining to at first and when I realized he was inquiring about the eggs, I let out a fluttery laugh that sounded nothing like me.
I nodded my head hastily, while shoving a forkful of eggs in my mouth. "No, it's good," I mumbled.
He nodded slowly at me, and I guess he couldn't resist making a crack about my eating manners.
"So you always chew with your mouth open?" He smirked at me.
I curbed the sensation to roll my eyes and decided to play along. "Well, Riddick does it really matter? No one here but us." I considered something for a second and decided to go in for the mind fuck. "No one but us and God that is." I smiled sweetly at him. "And I hardly think God is caring about my table manners right now."
Riddick looked stricken and pale for a moment before he resumed his eating, in quiet. I pursed my lips and stared at his cup of coffee, my neck tensing. Just one sip would do him in, and I'd been unnaturally chatty not allowing him that one sip. I felt so cold and with each passing second, I could feel the comforting cocoon of desperation enveloping me. Any moment his hand could've reached out and brought the poison to his lips. His unknowing unnerved me, and I felt the pull of wanting to hint at his demise in my bones, but I couldn't think of anything to say. My eyes started to hurt and water because I hadn't blinked in what seemed like an eternity. I couldn't risk a single moment of darkness, or I would miss the defining moment in my life.
"What are you pouting about?" Riddick seemed reluctant to ask the question. Maybe he didn't care for the answer.
"I'm not pouting," I reasoned.
"Good, 'cause there's nothing to pout about." There was an underlying message to that statement that I couldn't quite pinpoint the significance of. Not at that moment anyway.
I chuckled hollowly, not knowing what he was talking about. "Yeah. Thanks for the advice."
His hand reached for the coffee, and my eyes were glued to his face. He was telling me something, but I couldn't make it out. My heart was beating way too quickly, and I had the particular feeling of a well-behaved child caught doing something bad. His fingers wrapped around the steaming cup, and I felt my nails dig into my palm, causing a prickle of pain. The cup moved, as if in slow motion to his lips, and my eyes closed as my body willingly or unwillingly -- I couldn't really tell at the time -- moved forward and my hand grabbed Riddick's wrist. It burned my frigid skin and Riddick's gaze told me my cold fingers hurt his warm skin. Riddick loosened his hold on the cup, trying to gauge what I was doing. I flicked my wrist, and the cup shattered to the floor, spilling the black liquid on the reflecting tile.
I exhaled and felt the ache of defeat slowly building in me. It wasn't soothing like hopelessness. Instead it was like I was forgetting all I stood for and fabricating a lie out of my truth. Never had I made a decision before and then went back on it. It was a bleeding wound of pride as nothing I've ever felt before. I had just been thrust into the light and in its revealing glow, I had some explaining to do. Too bad that physically I was all ready being drained, and the constant tiredness, that comes with a deed you can't go back on, was flowing through me like water through paper.
I just couldn't kill him, the son of a bitch. To see the silver is his eyes fade and his powerhouse energy to die, by my hands, was just too much. Now though I had to live with knowing my weakness was spared and walking around, while I would be encumbered in some hellish environment. Strangely this thought brought me some solace because of its depressing and bleak nature.
I looked at Riddick, after having scrutinized the broken pieces of ceramic enough. He looked eerily calm, waiting for a meaning behind my actions.
"Now, Jack . . ." Riddick lethargically started. ". . . I realize you're strange but mind explainin' that ?" He pointed to the broken cup and oozing coffee.
A melody in my head. Negativity was still a present and persistent influence in my life. Got to love that.
Only problem: What did I tell Riddick?
It started as a regular day. When I woke up, I was completely on top of Riddick's chest -- my back to him -- moving up and down with his steady breathing. I had taken my time to wake him. First, I raised one arm in the air, staring at my wriggling fingers and marveling at how much power they held in their thin bones. As I gazed, my vision focused and unfocused between the space of my fingers, and I watched, fascinated, the play of shadow and light. My lips formed silent words. The words were random and each was there to show their non importance, until I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, mouthing "Riddick." The word remained unarticulated, until the moment I used my voiceless fingers to stroke Riddick's neck. As I did that, I also snuggled into him, willing his hands to nuzzle me back. Nestled in his arms, running my hand over his scalp, I waited for him to come fully awake and when he did, he would abruptly stop his explorations of my soft stomach or whatever part he had been caressing, and I would quickly find myself rolled to the glacial atmosphere that existed on the unoccupied side of the bed. At this I would pout and gently cross my arms over my chest. I wasn't really angry or offended, but I enjoyed to amplify the guilt between Riddick and I.
Then the obligatory "talk" came. It always crept up and surprised me. In the quiet of Riddick's bedroom and the loud clamor of my mind, I never quite expected the stable tones of Riddick's voice, directed towards me. It always jarred the hard achieved equilibrium in me.
The "talk" varied but the message was always the same.
"Jack, you need to stop sleeping in my bed."
I nibbled at my nail, grooming. "Why?" I chirped.
I distinctly heard Riddick sigh, as I saw him run a hand over his head. "Because you won't change my mind."
"Huh?" I knew what he was talking about but indifference always felt better on me.
"About Zemi," his voice rasped.
"Oh." I finally looked at him, making my eyes sparkle with emotion. "It's okay . . . I'm just enjoying the last few moments I have with you . . . and of freedom."
Riddick laughed, amused at my blatant guilt manipulation. "What happened to getting away from me?" He finally looked straight at me. "Do you still want that?"
Was that hurt in his voice?
Hopefully.
I conjured up my best catholic school girl grin and replied with, "Yes, of course," as if it was no huge revelation. I shrugged. "But I'm not stupid. If this is gonna be my last few days of liberty, I'm at least gonna enjoy it."
"So, that's how it is?" Riddick ran a hand along my leg, that had somehow slipped out from under the security of the blanket. "You're just relaxing till I give you over to someone else?" He squeezed my knee.
Damn those hands. I swallowed the purr that was forming deep in my throat and slowly pulled my leg back under the covers. Riddick was once again underestimating my ability to block myself off and live in my own ideals. "Yes, Riddick -- that's how it is. You want to sell me . . . fine, but don't expect me to shine with happiness."
"Fine. But Jack --" He smirked at my calm face "-- next time you crawl into my bed don't expect me to warm you."
He swiftly got up, giving me a great view of the muscles of his back contracting, as he walked out to make breakfast. I lazily threw a pillow somewhere in his vicinity and stretched out on the bed. Too bad Riddick has no idea what is coming his way today, I thought sadly. I knew what I was going to do was evil, but what choices did I have? I mean how did he expect me to remember fleeting emotions from long ago, when living in a strange world full of twists and turns that just ended with me being hurt in some way?
I couldn't quite pinpoint why I was such a vortex of weakness in the face of challenges. Was it because I cared only for myself? Because I had such a rigid view on the way things should be done and could accept no compromise? Because I saw no one thing important enough to finish or even consider? Was it because inside I was angered by the little things and not the normal worries?
What was wrong with me? Being around Riddick caused this question to pop up more often than I liked. I never wanted to kill anyone, but I had to ask myself which was worse -- selling someone to a lifetime of bondage and torment or murdering someone to escape that fate? I made my decision in a second -- it never took me long to be clear on what had to be done. I was slow in taking the hard way and by nature I was idle but when I felt the weight of time pressing on my shoulders, my whole essence awoke from its camatose state and ran on dark fuel, a gift from all my hate. Stress actually turned me on.
Knowing tragedy was so close that I could feel its lips on mine, I was roused from my coffin and forced by an unseen wind to preserve myself. However, that need would not have existed if my calamity was further away. Funny thing Time was. Time, something that doesn't even subsist in reality, had such impacts on me. I could feel Time coursing through my blood, expanding my muscles, and feeding my brain. Without its vast help, I would have absolutely no motivation. There would have been no deadlines, and I would just be a shapeless orb, interacting with the other energies -- all going in the opposite direction and bogging me down. I didn't deserve Time.
As my soul registered the fact that I was running out of Time, it became elevated and hopeful of Death, but when my mind registered the fact, it became frenzied and despondent . . . finding hope in the pangs of distress. Apparently, I liked self-destructing myself because with misery comes numbness. The weakness actually made me feel stronger, like no matter how bad it would get, it wouldn't matter for I was all ready intimate with many forms of affliction. It was a disease with me. And in my malady, I found amenity because I knew Destiny worked hand in hand with Time. So my fate wasn't at all up to me. Therefore, I knew in each stage I would be victorious and at the end of the . . . journey -- is that what it was? -- I would outlast all the pain because when I was complete -- no longer a work in progress -- I would be agony. Complete . . . agony. And I liked that.
Agony is strong and could kick joys ass. Those were the terms I thought in.
It can be compared to the peace one feels when they're falling through the air, plummeting to sure death, and then jolting back to actuality only to realize it was all a dream. Relief. Yes, that's what it was -- relief in sorrow. Flawless delight in the repressive dark, that allowed me to be content and familiar with all lighter shades of dusk, pointing and laughing at the depression of others. Having experienced ultimate dark . . . shadows didn't seem so bad; they were a gift actually. Hidden from view, I was unbound from the rules, allowing me thoughts others blushed at, and I didn't expect or even want dawn to encase me in its insufferable glow. In that rough aurora, all the scars would become visible and then people would know the ones that been hurt the most, rendering them pitiful and untouchable. Or even worse the clear skinned ones, with no injuries, would try to offer help. I did not need that; I could tend, or more likely not, to my own wounds.
I got out of bed, not bothering to change out of my night shorts and tee, and made my way to the ground level of the ship -- maintenance. Once there, I searched for the tiny gel capsules I knew every ship has to combat against foreign, microscopic bacteria that might live on board. The capsules basically gave off a poisonous chemical that terminates the life of any alien agents that seeped in from space. However, a whole capsule, dissolved, would prove deadly for even larger organisms. I reached the metal cabinet against the corner and opened the door. Inside, in a glass jar the blue capsules were clearly visible and seemed to be glowing at me. I gently lowered a hand in and plucked one out. Holding it up to my nose, I tried to detect any unpleasant odor. Thankfully, there was none. I rolled it around my fingers before tucking it in the little pocket of my shorts.
I plopped down at the kitchen table and looked nervously over my shoulder where Riddick was preparing something to eat for us. I irregularly plucked at the tiny bump near my abdomen while staring intently at Riddick's coffee, that seemed to be glaring at me from across the table. All I had to do was slip the deadly poison into the cup and watch as Riddick's neck muscles swallowed down his Death. I could sense him finishing so I quickly extracted the contaminator and before my fingers released it into the drink, I swore that its venom attached to the swirling ridges of my fingers and if I were to lick one digit, I would quickly pass away. I subconsciously rubbed my hand on my shirt as if that could cleanse me.
The loudness of the plate as it was put in front of me startled me from my musings. Riddick gave me a quizzical look before rapidly wiping away the expression and sitting with his own plate across from me. I looked down at the scrambled eggs and wanted to immediately push the food away. I tugged at a lock of hair absent-mindedly and picked up a fork, using it to play with my food. Riddick on the other hand had no problem with his scrambled eggs, and I realized too late that my eyes were narrowed at him as if accusing him of something.
"No good?" he asked.
In a mental panic, I couldn't figure out what the question was pertaining to at first and when I realized he was inquiring about the eggs, I let out a fluttery laugh that sounded nothing like me.
I nodded my head hastily, while shoving a forkful of eggs in my mouth. "No, it's good," I mumbled.
He nodded slowly at me, and I guess he couldn't resist making a crack about my eating manners.
"So you always chew with your mouth open?" He smirked at me.
I curbed the sensation to roll my eyes and decided to play along. "Well, Riddick does it really matter? No one here but us." I considered something for a second and decided to go in for the mind fuck. "No one but us and God that is." I smiled sweetly at him. "And I hardly think God is caring about my table manners right now."
Riddick looked stricken and pale for a moment before he resumed his eating, in quiet. I pursed my lips and stared at his cup of coffee, my neck tensing. Just one sip would do him in, and I'd been unnaturally chatty not allowing him that one sip. I felt so cold and with each passing second, I could feel the comforting cocoon of desperation enveloping me. Any moment his hand could've reached out and brought the poison to his lips. His unknowing unnerved me, and I felt the pull of wanting to hint at his demise in my bones, but I couldn't think of anything to say. My eyes started to hurt and water because I hadn't blinked in what seemed like an eternity. I couldn't risk a single moment of darkness, or I would miss the defining moment in my life.
"What are you pouting about?" Riddick seemed reluctant to ask the question. Maybe he didn't care for the answer.
"I'm not pouting," I reasoned.
"Good, 'cause there's nothing to pout about." There was an underlying message to that statement that I couldn't quite pinpoint the significance of. Not at that moment anyway.
I chuckled hollowly, not knowing what he was talking about. "Yeah. Thanks for the advice."
His hand reached for the coffee, and my eyes were glued to his face. He was telling me something, but I couldn't make it out. My heart was beating way too quickly, and I had the particular feeling of a well-behaved child caught doing something bad. His fingers wrapped around the steaming cup, and I felt my nails dig into my palm, causing a prickle of pain. The cup moved, as if in slow motion to his lips, and my eyes closed as my body willingly or unwillingly -- I couldn't really tell at the time -- moved forward and my hand grabbed Riddick's wrist. It burned my frigid skin and Riddick's gaze told me my cold fingers hurt his warm skin. Riddick loosened his hold on the cup, trying to gauge what I was doing. I flicked my wrist, and the cup shattered to the floor, spilling the black liquid on the reflecting tile.
I exhaled and felt the ache of defeat slowly building in me. It wasn't soothing like hopelessness. Instead it was like I was forgetting all I stood for and fabricating a lie out of my truth. Never had I made a decision before and then went back on it. It was a bleeding wound of pride as nothing I've ever felt before. I had just been thrust into the light and in its revealing glow, I had some explaining to do. Too bad that physically I was all ready being drained, and the constant tiredness, that comes with a deed you can't go back on, was flowing through me like water through paper.
I just couldn't kill him, the son of a bitch. To see the silver is his eyes fade and his powerhouse energy to die, by my hands, was just too much. Now though I had to live with knowing my weakness was spared and walking around, while I would be encumbered in some hellish environment. Strangely this thought brought me some solace because of its depressing and bleak nature.
I looked at Riddick, after having scrutinized the broken pieces of ceramic enough. He looked eerily calm, waiting for a meaning behind my actions.
"Now, Jack . . ." Riddick lethargically started. ". . . I realize you're strange but mind explainin' that ?" He pointed to the broken cup and oozing coffee.
A melody in my head. Negativity was still a present and persistent influence in my life. Got to love that.
Only problem: What did I tell Riddick?