Solitude: a Micro

There was only one rule: Don't Open the Door.

The designers of the experiment were clear enough on that point. The statement appeared in bright red letters above the door on the inside of the claustrophobic capsule I had been encased in for the past four or five months. The days really do run into each other with no sun or moon. About a week ago (was it a week?) I had torn the calendar to confetti just so the pretty black numbers and scenes of unspoiled pine forest wouldn't mock me.

I don't remember all the experiment's details after so long, but it was something about testing the viability of single-manned maintenance crews in space. The only thing I bothered remembering was the million dollar reward for participants who would stay the full six months; small metal coffin to live in; absolutely no human contact or internet. The things one does for money, eh?

The only thing I had to remember any sort of passage of time was the regular thrumming of the air recycler and the phantom-like food deliveries in my refrigeration unit as I slept. After a while, I started talking to them both for company. I tell you, Recycly has a great sense of humor but Fridgy is a little cold to me. Isolation jokes.

They did give me some reading material: a flimsy, well-read Bible and Andy Weir's The Martian. Deuteronomy became a paper hat last month and I can recite good old Watney's journey word for word. Seriously, The Martian? That's a little twisted, guys.

Anyways, I am completely fine, the water on my face is just moisture from the vent, I promise. Please open the door. Open the door. OPEN THE DOOR!

Please.

Guys?

Why won't the handle work?