For Barakoa
"Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."
~ Johnny Cash
((so some things make sense, he killed a zion crew and took their ship.))
The code falls aimlessly, yet in a pattern. The only light source on the deck. He chucked rocks into all the other lights on the ship, save a few in the mess hall. He liked it that way, dark. He sat in front of the monitor, never looking up, his eyes only focus on the blood. Silence. He liked it that way, too. Since he first walked out he's picked up a few stragglers along the way, and from time to time they could get rowdy, he always told them Silence is bliss, but they never listened. He glanced up at the bodies stacked on one another. Yet another sense he oddly seemed to like, the smell of rotting flesh. His attention went back to his hand, in which he was carving numbers into with his blood-stained shard of glass. He dug the shard deeper as he carved a vertical line, straight across his palm prints.
He whispered to himself in the darkness...
...the only thing that's real.
He went on, carving the top line, completing the seven. His ear twitched as he heard the sound of small, soft steps, pitter pattering into the deck. Another nightmare he thought. He braced himself...
"Why the F%^& haven't you cleaned this garbage up!"
She yelled at him, pointing down at the rotting bodies. He didn't even look up, just kept staring down at his hand, watching the blood drip as he began to carve a circle.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
He continued to stare down, ignoring the shouts, needless to say that didn't make her happy. THWAP! His head bounced a bit, and the constant undertone of ringing in his ears grew louder, but he never looked up, just cringed as he finished the circle with a sharp puncture from the smack. Then he began another circle right beside it.
"Nut job."
She said as she walked into the mess hall, slamming the door shut with all the might her young body could produce. He looked up. She was a rowdy one, if you couldn't already tell. Always interrupting his silence. He loved her for it, though. He loved them all for it. If it weren't for their senseless sanity, he wouldn't have the tiny bit left. He went back down to his work, finishing the final curve of the circle.
"There."
He said to himself after completing the final circle. He held his hand out, blood dripping down the side onto his already-blood-stained shirt. He gazed upon the carved numbers in his palm. His eyes were wide with glee and a smile grew ear to ear, his Mona Lisa, his Van Gogh, his masterpiece. Oh, how proud he was. His thank you speech began in his mind...
This is for all those who now lay dead.
This is for all the tears their families shed.
This is for all the heartache, and the lying.
This is for all the orphaned children crying.
This is for all the suffering endured.
This is for all the viruses that can never be cured.
This is for all the ones who had their names taken away.
This was my pod number, and I repeat it to myself everyday.
He continued smiling, still staring down at his palm. He raised out of his seat and slid the shard of glass back into his back pocket.
Time to show the others.
"Ooooh, Soooorrrrr..."
~ Jon Rico
