Three-Word Prompt: Starship Amnesty Cerulean
People who’ve done what I’ve done are short on chances. I’ve had light years to think about my wrongs, but what can I do? You’d have probably done the same, if given the same options.
Anyway it’s done now, and like a fugitive I skulked away from the scene of the crime in a chartered ship heading out past any place you learn about in school. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with their names on my lips. So much time and so much space and I still remember their names.
The passengers on this ship don’t talk to each other much. We keep to ourselves. Some of them wear grief in their eyes, others keep a tenuous lid on their anger. I think I’m a combination of the two, so my silence is deeper, graver, more complete. No one talks to me.
A passenger gets off at a colony ship only to be arrested and executed within hours. We pick up the broadcast on the half-busted comm that cuts out before we can hear her crime. We huddle around the comm, straining to hear if her crime was any worse than ours.
Most of the passengers are gone by the time I leave the ship. I settle on a planetoid that is largely without color. Something to do with the atmosphere and the sun. Everything has a gray tint, still the air is breathable and the locals friendly enough. Their ears perk up like dogs back home, but our anatomy, in old terraforming lingo, is simpatico.
I drink the gray booze. Learn the strange squiggles they call language. Fuck the sons of this gray soil who cry out in religious fervor when they cum. Sex is like nothing to them, they screw in public, in private, and disdain nothing. Fine by me.
Days pass, years even. I get along and it’s more than I’d hoped for.
I don’t expect to meet a God, but that’s what I think he is when I first see him. A splash of color in a completely gray world. His hair is cerulean and his skin a subtler blue. I approach him, stunned out of all senses, asking how is this possible. He smiles at me like a priest to a simpleton. I barely understand his answer, their sound system is fucked up to ears like mine, like metal on glass. I can just make his words out:
I am forgiven, he says.
I beg him to take me home, to fuck me, to let me feel his color. He presses me against a wall with an arm against my throat: a sign of aggression, but also permission. He speaks to me in his brutal tongue and I jerk off, staring at his bright hair and hued skin.
“Forgive me,” I say to him. I’ve shot cum on the hem of his robe.
He backs off, shakes his head. He puts a finger on my chest, says, “Forgive.”