In the Red

I always thought of space as dark. The truth is, when you get sucked into the void by the will of God, there’s a lot of light. It’s just so far away. Thousands upon millions of little white dots, and colourful galaxies in the distance. They’re all blues and greens and purples, and they’re all so, so far away. I float untethered through the middle. Although I suppose it could be the edges, for all I know. I can’t tell and it burns a hole in my brain. I try not to think about it.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. I’ve gone through stages staring at the stars. Fear, anger, misery, fear again. Sometimes I think I’m lucky to be somehow alive to spend my time staring at these beautiful little dots. Sometimes I think God should just kill me. My hands are pruned, but there’s no water here. I remember when I came home with this tweed jacket. My girlfriend had found it so attractive at the time. If she saw how loosely it fit me now, she would cringe away. I try not to think about it now.

I should try to find Earth, but I don’t know what stars would lead me back. Not that I was ever good at astrology anyway. Or is that the personality pseudo-science one?

I check my pockets for something to help me, but there’s only $20 and some lint. I toss up the idea of trying to bind all the lint back to my clothes and slowly craft a rope. It would take so long, and I never learnt how to do it. How much time do I have left? How much time did I waste?

The note taunts me. I haven’t heard my girlfriend’s voice in so long, but I think it might be using hers. It doesn’t say anything intelligible, but I know what it means. After everything that I put in: here I was, with just a note and my clothes falling apart. How many dinner dates, anniversaries, and birthdays did I skip to work? To get more money. I said I wanted to eat well and I did. I ate so well. I ate alone. Even on Earth $20 would be meaningless.

Well, perhaps not meaningless. It could have been something. A meal, maybe. Not a fantastic meal, but a meal. Right now, any meal would be a fantastic meal.

What would I buy? Chicken curry? It’s fine, it’s not my favourite. Pasta? I never saw the appeal. It was such a cheap meal. Risotto? Overrated. We could be talking about my last meal here. My only meal ever again. It had to be something that meant something, right?

Oh! Of course! A slab of steak. I haven’t had a steak in so long. I don’t remember the taste, but I can still feel it; the first steak I ever ripped into – really ripped into. When I first moved out of home, and I hadn’t learnt to cook yet, I bought myself an expensive steak. I tried to cook it, but it came out so rare. Actually, it was raw with some light browning on the edges. I didn’t care. I tore into it. I could feel the meat tearing apart between my incisors, like it was still trying to cling to life. I ground it between my molars, but it would just squish. That’s why carnivores have sharp teeth like that. That’s why some of our teeth are like that too. I butchered that thing between my front teeth. All its blood gushing down my chin. It’s the closest I ever got to killing something.

The note continues to laugh in my girlfriend’s voice. It laughs at me. I’m so hungry. It’s laughing at me. If it’s worth the same as a steak then it should act as a steak. That was how it worked. That was how it should work. Maybe not always, but here. That was how it should work. Why shouldn’t I eat it? I’m thinking these things, and knowing they’re insanity, but I still growl when I can’t tear the plastic with my teeth.

I force the thing into my mouth. The plastic crunches and folds to fit itself. The paper sharp edges cut my tongue and YES! There! Yes! Yes! Steak! YES! The Warmth. The Release. Blood. Hot, deep, rich, blood. I swallow. I swallow. I swallow. The money catches and won’t follow the blood and saliva back into me. I swallow. It’s stuck.

Red drops float from my mouth into my face. Something about the way it moves, I think I saw someone dance like that once. A ballerina in red. At once human and yet, the way she moved—floated—across the stage was so untethered…

That little piece of me is there. I can’t breathe. I wonder if it will actually kill me. Nothing else has so far.

My body wretches on its own for air and dark spots cover the stars. Oh God. Oh God, Oh no. I jam my fingers into my mouth to pull out the note.

It’s stuck.

I don’t know how to get it out I can’t move it it won’t come out I can’t get it out it’s stuck in my mouth it won’t come out I don’t know what to do it’s stuck in my mouth it won’t come out I can’t pull it out it’s stuck it won’t come out I can’t get it out it’s stuck I can’t breathe it’s stuck it won’t come out I can’t get it out it’s stu

This story was written from a prompt that was chosen by a small group of writers. They were given three options for a setting, object, and action. They chose the following: We are in the vast expanse of space, the main character has $20 and some lint, and they choose to consume.