Wayward Souls

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I think that’s awfully assuming. Awfully presumptuous. A bit pretentious and possibly true. I doubt anyone ever tried to test it. Not really. Not a true, gut wrenching and agonized scream. One of terror and pain. The whole of the time this project was enacted, the years we spent orbiting the earth, I’m sure the only screams were ones of joy. Of new life. Of happiness.

I know that my screams went unheard. Ignored. That my anguish was lost to the emptiness and hopelessness of it all. That my cries of pain and distress did not reach you.

I’m journaling. You always told me to do so, that it would help collect my wayward thoughts in the midst of this mess. That I should return to my roots, the ones that first brought me to you, and document like my life depended on it. I feel as if I should pretend to be Captain Kirk. A wayfarer with wide-eyed wonder and hope coursing through his veins. Make up some random string of numbers and call it a star-date, log the events of the day with fervor and intensity. One small step and all that nonsense.

I can’t.

I know I can’t. I know exactly how long it’s been and my days are filled with boredom and anxiety. Sixty four days. It’s been sixty four days since the crack appeared. Since I watched with horror as North America collapsed into the core. As fire shot up through Europe like an angered dragon. As the earth crumbled and panicked starships fled to the starry voids.

I watched them all race by me. None of them carried you with it. I kept waiting. There was little else I could do. Slowly hurtling through space in our half-husk of a home, waiting for you. I moved myself around the station to pass the time, tended to the plants and played with Andromeda when she felt like acknowledging me. We have tomatoes, a handful of lavender sprigs. The little apple tree you transplanted keeps growing and the peppers have shifted to a hue of yellow that would have made your heart sing.

The garden is lovely.

How did this go so wrong? How did years of planning and research and talks go so catastrophically wrong? We were almost done. The station is nearly done and you said you’d be back to finish it. That it would be fine and you could finalize the small details as we made our way to safety, only to be claimed by the literal end of the world. Only to leave me with broken promises and a shortened life filled with fear and uncertainty.

We should be on our way to Mars right now. Floating through space with the rest of the elite who could afford this insanity. Humanity’s best, brightest, most brilliant and beloved, all fleeing to the safety of a new planet to destroy once we root our mold and rot into it.

They whizzed by me. I watched the skies, once full of the waiting and eager human race, become sparse until only I was left. No one came to help me and you were the only one with the key code to the cockpit.

Here I am, locked in place with no knowledge of flight, alone in a metal home with dwindling resources, watching debris and bits of planet earth twist and twirl through space outside of the windows in a sad choreography of hopelessness.

I’m lonely.

And I miss you.

And I can only pray to the cruel God who did this to me, to us, that you did not die in pain.

My arms are growing stronger, Carlyle. I’ve never needed to wheel myself around this much and I can tell my muscles are growing weary of the load without another to help carry it. I like the garden, I like tending to the plants. It gives me something to do, something to care for. I got our boxes unpacked as best I could. It hurt at first, seeing your face on our digital photo frame by our bed, all of your many, many smiles, but it keeps me company. The closet smells of sandalwood, it is woven into every stitch of fabric that once adorned your body.

I’m tired of pre-packaged meals but you were the one who cooked and I'm not sure how to handle this kitchen. I don’t have resources to waste. Not yet. It makes me wary of trying and I have yet to find your book of recipes. I don’t know how I survived without you. I’m not sure I can go on much longer without you, either. I’m not as independent as I once was.

How could I be? You swept into my life like a hurricane and carried me off to safer shores, allowed me the rare opportunity to become one of the remaining bits of humanity when I was unworthy. Me. A nobody. Worthless and quiet and average in every capacity. You were brilliant. My brilliant nova that built space ships with his hands and studied the stars with fervor. Eaten up by the world we broke alongside the masses who could not afford the luxury of escape.

I’m scared, Carlyle. I’m-

Jocasta looked up with a gasp from his tablet. He listened to the sounds of the station, muffled and quiet in the environment that was so desolate and cold. Something made a noise. It was loud. Angry. Abnormal.

Scenarios of panic began to flood his mind. Had something happened to the station? Did something come loose? A bolt? A panel? Did something fall off of a shelf? Did they tilt? Hit something? Did the station get pulled into earth's gravity?

It happened again.

Rhythmic.

Human.

He pushed himself back from his desk and frantically wheeled himself out into the main corridor. The wheels of his chair slid on the slick surface as he made his way through the curved hallway, bypassing stacks of ration crates that sat outside of the hardly used kitchen.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Jocasta swallowed hard as he approached the doorway that acted as the only entrance to the small station. He listened intently, brushed back his much too long ringlet curls of a dusty blonde hue, and waited. His body flinched when the rough, angry pounding returned. He looked at the small LED screen at the side and checked that the interior of the bay was stabilized. He lifted his trembling hand up and pressed the door command.

The white panel hissed and slid open. Jocasta was met with the sight of a man standing in the bay, wearing a spacesuit with a darkened visor over his face. He had a backpack slung over his body, strapped tightly to ensure it didn’t float away. The stranger waved wearily, as if the motion hurt. Jocasta’s trembling hand remained on the door button as he took in the sight of another human. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Who… are you?” Jocasta asked.

Such a strange sensation. Speech. Something he thought he’d never need again.

The newcomer removed his helmet. His eyes were a warm color, the hue akin to the purest of whiskeys. His pale cheeks were gaunt and in a desperate need of a shave. His hair was a mess of knots, the chestnut hue looked oily. His body stumbled a bit, he gripped hold of the doorframe to steady himself as he caught his breath.

“My ship was damaged as I was fleeing earth and I couldn’t pilot, the damn thing's engine was fried. I finally got close enough to your station that I could board. I’m sorry for startling you,” he stated with a soft Irish accent.

“Do you know how to pilot?” Jocasta asked.

“I do. My name is Troy. Commander Troy McNamara of N.O.V.A. And, if you’ll let me… I think I can get us home.”