The Space Station
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But I swore I heard her. In my dreams I still hear her.
Living on this space station my whole life, I didn't know anything else. Classes were taught in small rooms with windows to the only view I have ever known. Sleeping under the stars wasn't just an expression but a way of life. You could tell the ones who knew differently right away. Their faces had this look of disconnect and hopelessness at the same time. I loved to hear my parents talk of their life on Earth before Earth became uninhabitable. I would sit and hang on every word, every description, picturing one day being able to feel grass underneath my feet, smell the breeze of an ocean. I would waver between begging for a story of their prior life or biting my tongue, as I knew talking about it was never easy for them. I could tell the days when it hit the most, missing who they were before the carbon warmed the planet up by 8 degrees causing a domino effect, ending all livable life on Earth. They would sit and stare out the small cabin window, ghosts of their prior selves. Sometimes I would hear mom's silent cry and dad would console her the best he knew how, but it was too hard on him. He would often pretend he wasn't tired and fall asleep on the small futon, trying to save mom the pain of knowing she was making it more difficult for all.
