In My Solitude
How long do you hang on?
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.
They also say if you open your helmet when there is no atmosphere your eyes will pop out of your head and explode. Others tell me it would be like boiling from the inside out. According to the posters plastered on the edge of The Mew, we would be aware for a few seconds before you basically suffocate- the air in your lungs would be forced out of your body and you'd be gaping for air like a fish before perishing due to oxygen deprivation.
I pressed another "Remember to refill your O2 tank" poster to the smooth surface of The Mew. Its my job every day to make sure all the proper precautionary signs are placed around the entrances to Mew, the "accidental" deaths by lack of resources were skyrocketing. Unsurprising, since it's been exactly ten years since we've heard from Homeland. This would have been year twenty-five.
Mew was supposed to save Homeland.
They put thousands of us here. We were supposed to set up the necessary groundwork to evacuate the rest of Homeland twenty-five years from our delivery. Apparently, Homeland didn't have that long.
Instead, there are about a million of us trapped in this glorified ant farm. There are hectacres upon hectacres of abandoned living facilities, work environments, schools, and playgrounds- they were all meant to be the infrastructure to support the rest of Homeland arriving.
To be honest, we thought they were too busy focusing on surviving to send word to us... yet here we are. The dawn of the twenty-fifth year and no ship has arrived. In fact, there were no signs of anything moving for light years around.
The first to call it quits were those working in outer-spatial communications. It started with the foreman of the entire operation, the marked the two-and-a-half-year anniversary of the last contact. After that, hundreds more from the group joined them, having perished during "botched scouting runs".
I don't know how you can call a scouting run botched where no oxygen or resources were taken on the craft itself. They wanted to die, everyone knows it- but those running Mew are trying to hang on to some semblance of survival.
The worst peak of it was at the five-year mark. Nearly a quarter million people had died in "freak accidents" over the course of a month. It's when the governing body decided to implement mandatory safety checks at each entrance to Mew.
It's weird to think it took nearly two hundred fifty thousand people to get my job.
The "accidents" were projected to rise to an unprecedented height on this ten-year anniversary, so much in fact that all travel to and from Mew was completely banned for a month.
Therapy is free, but even then it is hard to find a therapist. No one wants to listen to the tales of the people here. How many versions of "I decided to go over my spouse and now they're dead" can you truly listen to before you feel life isn't worth living? How can you constantly be reminded that the main goal for you is to reproduce? Obviously, that takes its toll on anyone, and it's no wonder trying to get people into psychology is like pulling teeth.
So now, I get to sit day in and day out just feet away from death. I see multiple people throughout my day- some genuinely on trips across space for the good of Mew, but most are there just to torture themselves with how close they are to cosmic freedom, yet just a couple of feet of thick glass bars them from ever having control of their life.
I never used to understand them, but it's like an infection. I can feel the black tendrils of hopelessness as they worm their way into my brain. It's not bad, but it's always there. A barely perceptible murmur that reminds me that I am truly alone. It beckons me to stare out at the vast emptiness so that I am reminded that Felix will never be here.
How long do I hang on, before I give myself to the darkness?
About the Creator
A young adult still trying to find her place in this world.
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