Excerpts from the Void

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Science doesn’t allow it. A scream needs an atmosphere to travel, a sea of invisible particles to carry it from the physically pained to the mentally scarred. Space lacks that atmosphere, that conduit needed for verbal communication between two conscious beings. It’s nothing more than a vacuum: cold, empty and devoid of substance. And yet some of you reading this might choose to disagree with my definition of space. You might try and tell me that planets, stars and countless other heavenly creations are within the all-encompassing body that we refer to as space, providing wonder and amazement to the few that are lucky enough to set eyes on them. But when you’ve been out here for as long as I’ve been, locked away in the most advanced prison that humanity has ever designed, sailing across the black, unerring void with the same monotonous faces for company and the same tiny specks on the horizon — specks that after months of approach seem just as infinitesimal as the first time you set your eyes on them — I would have to disagree.

What you imagine as space — that dream that you take as reality — is nothing more than one of the many fictions you’ve allowed to corrupt your thoughts. Since your birth you’ve had images thrown at you, images filled with vibrant colour and otherworldly, almost impossible shapes. Images that, designed meticulously, excite the imagination and tantalise the innate explorer in us all. I was just like you were, back when I had my jovial feet planted on solid ground, filled with wonder at the promise of the final frontier. For as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to see these images for myself, to leave the earth and experience what I’d been promised was out there with my own two eyes. How young and naive I was, to expect that those representations, dreamt up in shady rooms not far from where you’re sitting now, were ever really there.

You’re probably frowning as you read this, assuming that I’m cynical, depressed and quite frankly, unworthy of such a coveted opportunity and since I feel like being honest, I’ll do you the favour and confirm that assumption. I am cynical, I am depressed and I have been for a while now. But then, how else am I meant to be? Am I supposed to wear a smile and pretend to be a jolly astronaut, floating around the ship, breaking into song and laughing with all my colleagues as we journey through the stars? Give me a break. Try locking yourself away for a few months with the people you work with before you try and tell me how I should feel. I’d be surprised if, at the end of your imprisonment, you all made it out alive. We definitely haven’t.

But I’m getting ahead of myself and there’s plenty to tell before we get down to the gory details. The scene needs to be set, the characters need introducing and I suppose even a little exposition might come in handy. Hell, you don’t even know why I’m out here in the first place. Still, there’s no need to rush into things and as I’ve got time to burn, I don’t think I will. First I’ve got to work myself into a good rhythm, to get the creative juices flowing and just to put your mind at ease, I’ll even work out how long I’ve got left out here to work on my new project.

Providing nothing happens to me and those of us remaining stick to our schedule, I have approximately four thousand nine hundred days or more conveniently, about thirteen and a half years to recount my little tale. Thirteen and a half years. Christ. That’s the last thing I needed to know. But before I set to brooding over the remainder of my sentence or thinking of a suitable starting point for the aforementioned tale, allow me, if you will, to return to where I started this account. To the thing that’s been tormenting me for months on end and the thing that I hope, in being put to paper (or touchscreen as is actually the case), will cease to haunt my dreams. Yes, that’s right — to the scream.

It always starts in the same way, with me waking up on the same bed I’m sitting on now. I’m wearing my undergarments: a long-sleeved thermal top and thermal trousers. My boots are fixed where they’re always fixed and without thinking, they’re on my feet and I’m on my way to the door. The door splits open, half of it sliding into the floor and half into the ceiling, almost without a sound. Next, I’m in the corridor and the door closes behind me, sealing my bedroom away with a clank as the two halves of the door unite with a kiss. The corridor is dark, darker than usual, but the emergency lighting, red and menacing, is there to guide my way. I move past the other bedrooms, my colleagues' bedrooms, gliding from point to point as I work my way to the rest of the ship. Below me, my shadow keeps me company, growing and shrinking as the emergency lights flash off and on and as I reach the door, my feet touch the ground and we become one. In this way, I manoeuvre myself towards my goal and the conclusion of this nightmare — the source of the emergency.

The route I take is always the same. From my bedroom, I go to the central chamber, through the greenhouse and out onto the starboard corridor. I could pass through the canteen or the laboratory to reach my destination — it’d be quicker and less eerie if I did — but I never do. Sometimes I stand and wait at the entrance to the other rooms, hoping that the doors will open and the outcome of my dream will change. That the master of this hell will do something, anything, to divert me from the route that’s been set before me. But so far they’ve remained resolute and as my eyes open following a blink, I always find myself entering the greenhouse.

In the glow of the emergency lighting, the plants take on an almost alien quality. Bathed in red, the once verdant foliage now appears black and with each pulse of light, they seem to be moving towards me, getting closer and closer, relentless, hungry. A shiver shoots down my spine and I propel myself towards the door to the starboard corridor, recoiling as the outstretched plants grasp at my suspended limbs. I’ve raced through this room countless times now and yet each time feels like the first. I know they won’t catch me, that they can’t catch me, but in that moment, as the adrenaline courses through my veins, I can’t escape the feeling that this time they’ll win.

“Maybe next time,” I think as the greenhouse door shuts behind me, leaving me with no choice but to continue. The end is near and try as I may, there’s no escaping it. Slowly I approach the starboard airlock. Like the rest of the ship, red light and shadow dance around me. My heart was already racing but now it feels as if it’s about to explode. I wait a couple of metres away from the airlock door. One more push will do it. One more push will get me there. I can see the airlock control panel. The word ‘Warning’ flashes across its screen. It’s up to me to investigate. No one else is coming.

I take a breath and push off the wall, closing my eyes like the coward I am and reaching out for the panel. I feel something cold against my fingers and trace around its edge. I open my right eye and look at my hands. They’re just where I hoped they’d be. Inspecting the panel, I understand why there’s an emergency — the outer airlock door is open. Two taps on the screen and the issue is resolved. A clinical white light replaces the red and my hands rush to my squinting eyes, leaving me suspended in space. I hear a quiet tap. First one, then two, then three, getting faster and faster until, without warning, they stop. I take another breath, open my eyes and wait for them to adjust to my new environment. As clarity returns, I realise I’m facing the inner airlock window. Glancing through, my eyes meet the abyss. Then I see it, out there in the darkness. A body flailing, drifting away. Its pale face turns towards me and its eyes meet mine. Then it happens. Then it screams.

END OF LOG