Fiction by Miranda Paley
Space always called to me in a way I never understood. It went beyond a simple curiosity- I needed to go, needed to see the universe beyond the secluded little hunk of rock called Earth.
I realize now I wasn't answering my life's calling. It's more like I was falling victim to a siren's singing.
As I sit here in my miserable little tin can floating hundreds of thousands of miles away from anyone who could help me, oxygen rapidly depleting, I contemplate where everything went wrong.
I don't know exactly what caused the explosion. Even if I did, there's not much I can do about it now. I can't see the extent of the damage from the flight deck, but I know it's bad. None of the other crew members have come rushing in. I can't hear anyone talking. Ignorance is bliss; I won't think too hard about the implications of that.
To me, space always seemed like this grand, unexplored frontier that needed to be conquered. But everything is so far away. The stars do nothing but watch from afar as the ship's oxygen bleeds out into the cold, empty vacuum. Do they feel anything as their devotees gasp and struggle for air under their watch? I don't think so. Space isn't welcoming, and anyone who dares venture into it is an intruder, not a guest.
I still have my oxygen tank, but that will only last me so long. A few hours, if I'm lucky. And how long would it take for help to get here? Even if a rescue team left this very second, it would take days.
I spent my whole life dreaming about this moment. I grew up watching movies about galaxies far, far away. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into getting an aerospace engineering degree. I spent years doing specialized physical training, all for this. And what have I gotten out of it?
At least the view is nice, I guess.
But I wish the light from the stars was a little warmer.