Alone, lost, broken transmissions float into the empty space of static non-existence.
Calm but paranoid that this is my last chance to say something, anything. I talk to myself in the dark. Power cells are drained and nothing's changed. Not since communications were cut.
No signal, no replies. I lie to myself saying everything will be okay.
Panic sets in as I try to rest and close my eyes. I squeeze them shut tight but sleep makes no difference to this endless night.
I miss sharp corners and falling to the ground. If I could only stub my toe I would weep tears of joy.
Out here, there are no echoes, no sounds of Mother Nature, no saviours or alien entities, just the repetitive behaviour of filling out logs and endless journal entries.
It feels like I've been adrift for centuries. What a gift it would be to lift my spirits so I drink vodka that I smuggled on this derelict ship, taking sips through a cold metal straw to numb these feelings as I float up towards the ceiling once more. Floating gently like I'm in an endless ocean with no shore.
Swallow pills to sleep and then rinse and repeat. Beeps warn of my impending doom as I lie suspended like a child in its dead mother's womb.
I can relate to this ship. The empty, hollow passageways and corridors have become my friends.
Madness set in long ago.
The end has to happen eventually. So, I open the airlock door and as the air escapes I smile because this was my fate and I will join the billions whom have already left as I wait for death to welcome me home.
