::: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE :::
Today was the last day that I would be on the ship . . . with Riddick. And I was all ready having trouble breathing. I sat in the dark cockpit, alone, surveying space through the window. It was endless and its ample power to exist was magnificent. While wars raged on planets, while people polluted their own blood, and while strange creatures evolved in its womb, space remained unshaken. I was in awe of its strength and at the same time despised its utter perfection. For a moment, I had the urge to bore a hole through the glass and allow space to seep through the ship and my skin, and further freeze my blood, until I was truly flawless too . . . dead. Pale glass with iced veins. I actually believed by accepting just a fraction of the beautiful atmosphere inside of me that it would reverse the damage in me . . . whatever it was.
Just as I was drifting to sleep in the chair, that I was slightly swiveling, Riddick walked in, almost immediately changing the room's aura from cold to warm. There was now a conflict of air . . . my frosty essence battling his blistering one. The chill would always triumph though and that was probably one of the main reasons Riddick had to get rid of me quicker . . . my spirit, or lack of, was killing him.
He sat down in the pilot's seat to check we were still on course, I assumed. As he did so, I turned my chair to face him . . . . Might as well make him feel uncomfortable in the only creepy way I could. My body was limp, as it slid down the chair a bit further and I relaxed my arms, fingertips brushing against the floor, tracing dust. I tilted my head to the side, studying Riddick. Being exhausted though was winning, and I couldn't concentrate. My eyelids felt like they were storing water as they kept trying to droop closed. Come on, talk to me, big guy, I thought. Keep me awake.
Just as I thought I would be taken into the arms of Morpheus, Riddick's voice, which sounded as lethargic as I felt, rolled to me.
"Are you packed?"
Irritation flooded my blood but I pushed it down. "No, not packed yet." Would've liked to add a "fuck you" there, but I didn't.
"Well, you're gonna have to --" he started to say.
"Look! I'm gonna fuckin' do it, okay?" I hated someone telling me what to do, especially since I had my own mental schedule. Everything had to be on my terms ... from life decisions to when I should fucking pack my shit up. God, I disliked being tired . . . . It made me really crabby . . . and being in a bad mood influenced my emotions too much. I needed to stay in control, especially now when I was entering foreign territory.
"Jack, don't get fuckin' angry just 'cause I have to make sure you're ready," he enunciated the "I" like it was a responsibility I had forced on him or something.
Riddick was obviously tired too. I just had to laugh. Jaded . . . weary . . . tired . . . . It was making us both seem like children. Between the short, dry chuckles I managed in, "Life is shit."
Riddick grinned and he seemed to agree . . . and accept it as a good thing. Stupid fool probably thought he had built some kind of resistance to it . . . to all the pain. I had to laugh again -- snicker, actually.
I took a breath and relaxed in the chair again, nudging Riddick's chair with my foot to face me. "I hate life. I'm just ridin' it out 'til death," I whispered to the only things clearly visible in the dark room, his silver eyes.
"Jack, you should really see a psychiatrist about your death wish," he joked.
"Been there, done that." I tried to keep it light, but it was hard considering my actual counselor. And than the second part of his sentence hit me. "Plus, I don't have a death wish." Chewing my bottom lip, I said, "And Riddick you should stop playing it as if you hate life too." I all ready knew he was asking himself why I would say something like that so I decided to enlighten him. " 'Cause you strike me as the type of guy who loves life."
That awarded me with sharply raised eyebrows. Riddick was definitely confused now. I slid my legs closer to his as I sleepily mumbled, "I mean yeah, it's true -- you fight so much for your miserable life, you're so willing to risk death to escape from crazed mercs, and you'd actually be proud to die instead of giving your life to Slam." I stifled a yawn and avoided Riddick's probably increasingly darkening gaze. "So yep, you dig life -- in your own twisted way." Rubbing the imaginary liquid out of my eyes, I continued my idle musings. "Me? I actually hate life -- not just fakin' it." I ran my hands through my short, wavy hair, leaning my head back. "In fact I hate it so much, that I refuse to die for it." I didn't know if what I was saying was making much sense, but I just had to get it out. "You see, I despise everything about my life . . . so it would be quite a shame if I died for it. Life isn't worth my death sacrifice . . . . That would mean I actually thought it was an important element . . . but since it's not, I'm just gonna wait it out . . ." I smirked in a sick way. ". . . It'll get tired of me and then I'll die," I finished with a tiny, playful push to Riddick's knee with my own.
As I looked over at him, I noticed his silence . . . almost stunned to muteness, but that was a much too strong assumption coming from a sleepy girl. He finally spoke. "We're gonna be landing in four hours." His voice sounded like he had gone five days without sleep . . . . I really had an effect on him . . . comforting and disturbing.
I got up, riddled with passive sluggishness, and started for the door. "I'm gonna go pack now," I said nonchalantly. But before I could truly end on an offhand note, I got the firm craving to jar Riddick with some more truth. "Riddick, ya know, I'm not mad anymore -- I can understand how you made that choice to lock me away . . . . I'm truly not a good survivor."
Reaching the door, I heard Riddick's straightforward voice poke at me. And his genuine, plain -- like white against black -- tone was what surprised me, as he said, "You are . . . a survivor. You've made it so far in a world you hate."
I hunched my shoulders and nodded my head, not yes or no. "Yeah, but I feel this gnawing desperation in my bones, and I know my soul is gone . . . an -- and I'm starting to like it." I swallowed down words that actually weren't going to leave my lips, and walked slowly to my room . . . to pack.
Today was the last day that I would be on the ship . . . with Riddick. And I was all ready having trouble breathing. I sat in the dark cockpit, alone, surveying space through the window. It was endless and its ample power to exist was magnificent. While wars raged on planets, while people polluted their own blood, and while strange creatures evolved in its womb, space remained unshaken. I was in awe of its strength and at the same time despised its utter perfection. For a moment, I had the urge to bore a hole through the glass and allow space to seep through the ship and my skin, and further freeze my blood, until I was truly flawless too . . . dead. Pale glass with iced veins. I actually believed by accepting just a fraction of the beautiful atmosphere inside of me that it would reverse the damage in me . . . whatever it was.
Just as I was drifting to sleep in the chair, that I was slightly swiveling, Riddick walked in, almost immediately changing the room's aura from cold to warm. There was now a conflict of air . . . my frosty essence battling his blistering one. The chill would always triumph though and that was probably one of the main reasons Riddick had to get rid of me quicker . . . my spirit, or lack of, was killing him.
He sat down in the pilot's seat to check we were still on course, I assumed. As he did so, I turned my chair to face him . . . . Might as well make him feel uncomfortable in the only creepy way I could. My body was limp, as it slid down the chair a bit further and I relaxed my arms, fingertips brushing against the floor, tracing dust. I tilted my head to the side, studying Riddick. Being exhausted though was winning, and I couldn't concentrate. My eyelids felt like they were storing water as they kept trying to droop closed. Come on, talk to me, big guy, I thought. Keep me awake.
Just as I thought I would be taken into the arms of Morpheus, Riddick's voice, which sounded as lethargic as I felt, rolled to me.
"Are you packed?"
Irritation flooded my blood but I pushed it down. "No, not packed yet." Would've liked to add a "fuck you" there, but I didn't.
"Well, you're gonna have to --" he started to say.
"Look! I'm gonna fuckin' do it, okay?" I hated someone telling me what to do, especially since I had my own mental schedule. Everything had to be on my terms ... from life decisions to when I should fucking pack my shit up. God, I disliked being tired . . . . It made me really crabby . . . and being in a bad mood influenced my emotions too much. I needed to stay in control, especially now when I was entering foreign territory.
"Jack, don't get fuckin' angry just 'cause I have to make sure you're ready," he enunciated the "I" like it was a responsibility I had forced on him or something.
Riddick was obviously tired too. I just had to laugh. Jaded . . . weary . . . tired . . . . It was making us both seem like children. Between the short, dry chuckles I managed in, "Life is shit."
Riddick grinned and he seemed to agree . . . and accept it as a good thing. Stupid fool probably thought he had built some kind of resistance to it . . . to all the pain. I had to laugh again -- snicker, actually.
I took a breath and relaxed in the chair again, nudging Riddick's chair with my foot to face me. "I hate life. I'm just ridin' it out 'til death," I whispered to the only things clearly visible in the dark room, his silver eyes.
"Jack, you should really see a psychiatrist about your death wish," he joked.
"Been there, done that." I tried to keep it light, but it was hard considering my actual counselor. And than the second part of his sentence hit me. "Plus, I don't have a death wish." Chewing my bottom lip, I said, "And Riddick you should stop playing it as if you hate life too." I all ready knew he was asking himself why I would say something like that so I decided to enlighten him. " 'Cause you strike me as the type of guy who loves life."
That awarded me with sharply raised eyebrows. Riddick was definitely confused now. I slid my legs closer to his as I sleepily mumbled, "I mean yeah, it's true -- you fight so much for your miserable life, you're so willing to risk death to escape from crazed mercs, and you'd actually be proud to die instead of giving your life to Slam." I stifled a yawn and avoided Riddick's probably increasingly darkening gaze. "So yep, you dig life -- in your own twisted way." Rubbing the imaginary liquid out of my eyes, I continued my idle musings. "Me? I actually hate life -- not just fakin' it." I ran my hands through my short, wavy hair, leaning my head back. "In fact I hate it so much, that I refuse to die for it." I didn't know if what I was saying was making much sense, but I just had to get it out. "You see, I despise everything about my life . . . so it would be quite a shame if I died for it. Life isn't worth my death sacrifice . . . . That would mean I actually thought it was an important element . . . but since it's not, I'm just gonna wait it out . . ." I smirked in a sick way. ". . . It'll get tired of me and then I'll die," I finished with a tiny, playful push to Riddick's knee with my own.
As I looked over at him, I noticed his silence . . . almost stunned to muteness, but that was a much too strong assumption coming from a sleepy girl. He finally spoke. "We're gonna be landing in four hours." His voice sounded like he had gone five days without sleep . . . . I really had an effect on him . . . comforting and disturbing.
I got up, riddled with passive sluggishness, and started for the door. "I'm gonna go pack now," I said nonchalantly. But before I could truly end on an offhand note, I got the firm craving to jar Riddick with some more truth. "Riddick, ya know, I'm not mad anymore -- I can understand how you made that choice to lock me away . . . . I'm truly not a good survivor."
Reaching the door, I heard Riddick's straightforward voice poke at me. And his genuine, plain -- like white against black -- tone was what surprised me, as he said, "You are . . . a survivor. You've made it so far in a world you hate."
I hunched my shoulders and nodded my head, not yes or no. "Yeah, but I feel this gnawing desperation in my bones, and I know my soul is gone . . . an -- and I'm starting to like it." I swallowed down words that actually weren't going to leave my lips, and walked slowly to my room . . . to pack.