::: CHAPTER SIXTEEN :::
I meekly looked at Riddick. The problem wasn't that I had to lie; it was fabricating the lie on the spot. Noticing that I wasn't saying much, he crouched down to pick up the splintered pieces. Wouldn't want me stepping in them -- how nice. I clicked my tongue silently as a thought wriggled its way into my mind.
"Sorry about that, Riddick." My hand gestured lightly to the mess. "It's just that, well, coffee is bad for you."
Riddick instantly looked up at me. "Bad?" He looked like he wanted to chuckle at me.
I empathetically nodded my head. "It's addictive, ya know?" And sometimes poisonous I added silently in my head. I had a know-all expression on my face.
He gave me a lopsided grin, but his eyes held a glimmer of dangerous doubt. "So you were protecting me from the coffee, Jack?" He made it sound like a joke but there was . . . something . . . that I was missing.
"Just trying to do my part, Riddick." My voice came out harsher than I would have liked. Its deep tone was suspiciously halting. I looked back at the coffee, as Riddick resumed searching for ceramic pieces naked to the human eye, and I wondered momentarily if Riddick wanted me to clean it up. That thought, however, was quickly extinguished . . . .
Out of the corner of my eye, something sparkly jumped out at me. I was too stunned to move.
A little, oddly shaped blue lump was simply lying in the black liquid -- taunting me. Its contrasting hue blackened the coffee and my heart even more. All I had to do was quickly bend over and take it out before Riddick noticed, but my fingers, that had touched it before, started to itch and burn. The poison was seeping into me and killing my wicked spirit or making it stronger. Who the hell could focus?
My breathing was erratic, and I rubbed at my forehead before silently slipping to my knees. My hand hovered over the blue capsule and then it swooped down and encased it in its palm.
Riddick must have noticed my sharp movements because his head tilted to the right and looked at my face before moving to my tightly clenched fist. I swallowed roughly and stood up much too quickly, causing Riddick to get up also. I walked over to the cabinet, with my Death still in hand and grabbed a towel.
"It's okay, Riddick. I'll get the coffee."
He completely ignored my diversion. "Jack, what's in your hand?"
"What?" I bid my movements to be slow . . . normal . . . and I looked down at my left hand. "It's just a towel."
Before my sight reached Riddick, I heard a low growl emanate from him. "Your other hand."
My smile passed right through his serious expression and my panic escalated as did my need to protect myself. "There's nothing in my hand," I whispered to him. His mistrust angered me. Even if he had every right to question me, he really had an unhealthy obsession of blaming me for everything.
He stalked towards me, with every emotion invisible. He pacifistically pulled the towel away and let it drop to the floor. He took my right arm in his grasp and through this all my hand didn't dare unfurl to reveal the sticky blue stain that held every secret in its dull color.
"Jack, let me see." It was a stable command. And it made me want to hit him . . . hard . . . over the head . . . with a club . . . repeatedly . . . and watch him bleed to death . . . in severe pain. Gritted thoughts.
Instead I grinned. "No."
Riddick towered over me, and I felt insignificant and jaded. Only I made myself aware of that but now Riddick also had the power. Infuriating to say the least. His hand moved down my arm to tightly grip my wrist. Unknowingly, I had inched -- imperceptibly -- away from him and now my arm hurt, trying to pull out of his strong (without being bruising) grasp.
"Just open up your hand." He sounded reasonable and soothing, almost coaxing me to burst into tears and beg for forgiveness, while I showed him the contamination coating my hand. But I abandoned that idea.
I shook my head, understanding that my resentment was flaring. It wasn't about Riddick seeing the poison I had on my hand anymore; it was about getting the fucker the hell away from me. I couldn't stand having him see me up close and noting my hate and creature-like qualities. The desire to push him and escape was infiltrating me like the cold that can purl through tiny pores of skin and chill you to the bone. Why was he staring . . . no, glaring . . . no, just staring at me like that? Did he hate me? The emotional demand to ask him what he thought of me was powerful and pathetic at the same time.
Riddick's other hand curled around the hand that would most likely fall off due to its twisted deeds and gently played with the fingers, tempting them to open up to him. His gaze held mine as one by one each finger straightened to present the majestic betrayal.
As my hand was exposed to the air, it wept a blue droplet to the floor, hitting Riddick's boot. He stared at my open palm, and I was actually thankful for the momentary escape from his soft gaze.
"What's this, Jack?" There was a twinge of suppressed anger in his voice, and I realized once again that we were alone in space.
"That?" I asked, twitching my hand slightly in his own.
The calm in his voice frightened me more than hateful tones. "Yeah, Jack . . . that," he said, squeezing my hand rather roughly.
I started to cry. It was humiliating and degrading. The only time I cried was on purpose but these were unexpected tears. They felt searing hot on my cold cheek, and I wanted to yell at Riddick that it didn't matter that I tried to poison him because in the end I had saved him. But I knew that would sound childish and immature -- as if I was fishing for compliments because I had excused him from my wrath. However, I knew what each salty tear could hold . . . if I remained in control. They were weak yet powerful, simple yet complicated, and completely impossible in their own right.
The night and stars didn't make sense anymore, when I heard my soundless tears. They were speaking of secrets and plans, and I was the feeble creature trying to decode their message. I heard the invisible clouds in my mind, and I knew they were willing me to discover something that should remain hidden. My annoying intuition submerged me into a world full of paranoia and doubt. A feeling of despair and heaviness strangled my very aura and squeezed the liquid out of my eyes. In essence, I didn't have an aura that pure, but with all these self-destructing thoughts, it seemed that my very center of balance was collapsing. These were all the regular feelings that I experienced during the calm before the storm. Something was coming.
Riddick shook me. "Jack, stop crying," his voice rumbled.
I sniffled and with my free hand wiped at the tears. "I'm sorry," I choked out. Sincerity was foreign to me and my voice was thick with this strange emotion. I was sorry for being caught in my lie, I was sorry for failing to kill someone, but the main reason I was sorry was that I had disappointed Riddick . . . . And this scared me beyond anything I had ever experienced before. Being sorry for someone else was definitely new for me.
A new form of torture, I thought.
Anger flashed behind Riddick's eyes and his demeanor swiftly started to change. Somehow, he didn't like someone apologizing to him, or maybe I was wrong and the effects of what I had tried to do finally hit him full force. He threw my hand away and took me by the shoulders, slamming me against the wall. This quickly got rid of the tears. I didn't even wince at the pain, but I was alarmed at the ferocity apparent in Riddick's mercury eyes. I had awakened the ghost . . . the zombie . . . the creature that had saved my weak life from the abyss of blue blood. But this time the entity wasn't on my side.
Riddick's lips seemed to be snarling at me as he communicated a familiar message that appeared to encompass finality.
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back."
I meekly looked at Riddick. The problem wasn't that I had to lie; it was fabricating the lie on the spot. Noticing that I wasn't saying much, he crouched down to pick up the splintered pieces. Wouldn't want me stepping in them -- how nice. I clicked my tongue silently as a thought wriggled its way into my mind.
"Sorry about that, Riddick." My hand gestured lightly to the mess. "It's just that, well, coffee is bad for you."
Riddick instantly looked up at me. "Bad?" He looked like he wanted to chuckle at me.
I empathetically nodded my head. "It's addictive, ya know?" And sometimes poisonous I added silently in my head. I had a know-all expression on my face.
He gave me a lopsided grin, but his eyes held a glimmer of dangerous doubt. "So you were protecting me from the coffee, Jack?" He made it sound like a joke but there was . . . something . . . that I was missing.
"Just trying to do my part, Riddick." My voice came out harsher than I would have liked. Its deep tone was suspiciously halting. I looked back at the coffee, as Riddick resumed searching for ceramic pieces naked to the human eye, and I wondered momentarily if Riddick wanted me to clean it up. That thought, however, was quickly extinguished . . . .
Out of the corner of my eye, something sparkly jumped out at me. I was too stunned to move.
A little, oddly shaped blue lump was simply lying in the black liquid -- taunting me. Its contrasting hue blackened the coffee and my heart even more. All I had to do was quickly bend over and take it out before Riddick noticed, but my fingers, that had touched it before, started to itch and burn. The poison was seeping into me and killing my wicked spirit or making it stronger. Who the hell could focus?
My breathing was erratic, and I rubbed at my forehead before silently slipping to my knees. My hand hovered over the blue capsule and then it swooped down and encased it in its palm.
Riddick must have noticed my sharp movements because his head tilted to the right and looked at my face before moving to my tightly clenched fist. I swallowed roughly and stood up much too quickly, causing Riddick to get up also. I walked over to the cabinet, with my Death still in hand and grabbed a towel.
"It's okay, Riddick. I'll get the coffee."
He completely ignored my diversion. "Jack, what's in your hand?"
"What?" I bid my movements to be slow . . . normal . . . and I looked down at my left hand. "It's just a towel."
Before my sight reached Riddick, I heard a low growl emanate from him. "Your other hand."
My smile passed right through his serious expression and my panic escalated as did my need to protect myself. "There's nothing in my hand," I whispered to him. His mistrust angered me. Even if he had every right to question me, he really had an unhealthy obsession of blaming me for everything.
He stalked towards me, with every emotion invisible. He pacifistically pulled the towel away and let it drop to the floor. He took my right arm in his grasp and through this all my hand didn't dare unfurl to reveal the sticky blue stain that held every secret in its dull color.
"Jack, let me see." It was a stable command. And it made me want to hit him . . . hard . . . over the head . . . with a club . . . repeatedly . . . and watch him bleed to death . . . in severe pain. Gritted thoughts.
Instead I grinned. "No."
Riddick towered over me, and I felt insignificant and jaded. Only I made myself aware of that but now Riddick also had the power. Infuriating to say the least. His hand moved down my arm to tightly grip my wrist. Unknowingly, I had inched -- imperceptibly -- away from him and now my arm hurt, trying to pull out of his strong (without being bruising) grasp.
"Just open up your hand." He sounded reasonable and soothing, almost coaxing me to burst into tears and beg for forgiveness, while I showed him the contamination coating my hand. But I abandoned that idea.
I shook my head, understanding that my resentment was flaring. It wasn't about Riddick seeing the poison I had on my hand anymore; it was about getting the fucker the hell away from me. I couldn't stand having him see me up close and noting my hate and creature-like qualities. The desire to push him and escape was infiltrating me like the cold that can purl through tiny pores of skin and chill you to the bone. Why was he staring . . . no, glaring . . . no, just staring at me like that? Did he hate me? The emotional demand to ask him what he thought of me was powerful and pathetic at the same time.
Riddick's other hand curled around the hand that would most likely fall off due to its twisted deeds and gently played with the fingers, tempting them to open up to him. His gaze held mine as one by one each finger straightened to present the majestic betrayal.
As my hand was exposed to the air, it wept a blue droplet to the floor, hitting Riddick's boot. He stared at my open palm, and I was actually thankful for the momentary escape from his soft gaze.
"What's this, Jack?" There was a twinge of suppressed anger in his voice, and I realized once again that we were alone in space.
"That?" I asked, twitching my hand slightly in his own.
The calm in his voice frightened me more than hateful tones. "Yeah, Jack . . . that," he said, squeezing my hand rather roughly.
I started to cry. It was humiliating and degrading. The only time I cried was on purpose but these were unexpected tears. They felt searing hot on my cold cheek, and I wanted to yell at Riddick that it didn't matter that I tried to poison him because in the end I had saved him. But I knew that would sound childish and immature -- as if I was fishing for compliments because I had excused him from my wrath. However, I knew what each salty tear could hold . . . if I remained in control. They were weak yet powerful, simple yet complicated, and completely impossible in their own right.
The night and stars didn't make sense anymore, when I heard my soundless tears. They were speaking of secrets and plans, and I was the feeble creature trying to decode their message. I heard the invisible clouds in my mind, and I knew they were willing me to discover something that should remain hidden. My annoying intuition submerged me into a world full of paranoia and doubt. A feeling of despair and heaviness strangled my very aura and squeezed the liquid out of my eyes. In essence, I didn't have an aura that pure, but with all these self-destructing thoughts, it seemed that my very center of balance was collapsing. These were all the regular feelings that I experienced during the calm before the storm. Something was coming.
Riddick shook me. "Jack, stop crying," his voice rumbled.
I sniffled and with my free hand wiped at the tears. "I'm sorry," I choked out. Sincerity was foreign to me and my voice was thick with this strange emotion. I was sorry for being caught in my lie, I was sorry for failing to kill someone, but the main reason I was sorry was that I had disappointed Riddick . . . . And this scared me beyond anything I had ever experienced before. Being sorry for someone else was definitely new for me.
A new form of torture, I thought.
Anger flashed behind Riddick's eyes and his demeanor swiftly started to change. Somehow, he didn't like someone apologizing to him, or maybe I was wrong and the effects of what I had tried to do finally hit him full force. He threw my hand away and took me by the shoulders, slamming me against the wall. This quickly got rid of the tears. I didn't even wince at the pain, but I was alarmed at the ferocity apparent in Riddick's mercury eyes. I had awakened the ghost . . . the zombie . . . the creature that had saved my weak life from the abyss of blue blood. But this time the entity wasn't on my side.
Riddick's lips seemed to be snarling at me as he communicated a familiar message that appeared to encompass finality.
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back."