Sunk by the Moon

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But you can see one. You can almost feel one. The muscles flexing as powerfully as they ever have, desperately trying to force oxygen down their lungs, but there is none. Meanwhile you float ideally by, helpless, staring and scrabbling over to try to aid the futile. In the void of space, I’ve never heard such savage silence in all my life.

I knew it would be dangerous. I really did. At the very least, I convinced myself I knew it was going to be dangerous when I joined up. But how could I have really known? Really understood? Wives’ tales and overused sayings spat out by Hollywood and reserved veterans alike finally register with me. In this moment, I feel exactly what they mean. I wish I could’ve gone my entire life without knowing.

Tears don’t feel the same in space either. Nothing really does. The strangest thing for me has been the yearning for our space station. That cold, nauseating hunk of scrap orbiting whatever gravity swell is so unfortunate enough to call us home, provides me with the greatest solace of my life (aside from being planet-side I imagine). My bunk isn’t much bigger than I am, but inside that swirling oasis, everything feels normal again. Hugs are actual embraces. Laughter, shouting, even angry yelling is heartwarming. And tears actually hydrate your skin, instead of a dull coldness sluffing off your face.

I have no one to blame, but myself. How rageful I am at the thought of my naïve craving for adventure. But again, how could I have known? This dichotomy is pure languish. Ignore the incompetent leadership, the pointless errands and chores, the timeless slog of hurrying to meet a hard time, only to sit and wait for hours. Ignore the lack of action and fulfillment. Ignore all the trivial day-to-days. What haunts my every still moment, is the argument inside my head – the two selves on my shoulders: one calling me a moron for signing up and the other trying to soothe my decision with justifications of emotional ignorance by the masses.

My desperation gets heavier every day. My pack being weighed down by monotony and hollowness. My sole hope is the two men (boys like me really) running towards me as I’m finally yanked back inside the airlock. Outfitted in their station uniforms, they slide to my side and rip off my helmet, just as we’ve been taught. Immediately, the atmosphere of the station is filled with my half screams and half sobs. Jeb is shaking me, while Frank is trying to calm me down, but all their words are coming in hazy. Simultaneously, the inside lights are blinding me, because of the broken protocol to normally let the airlock lights gradually equilibrate to those of the station. Finally, some semblance of coherent language fumbles into my ears,

“You best calm down, or else BM is gonna slap you with ‘unfit’. Trust me, no healin’ happens in that ward of the hospital wing.” Jeb spits out, bearhugging my body so tight that my hysterics are limited to quick jolts of my head back-and-forth.

“Shoot! Here he comes, Jeb. We gotta lock it up boys!” Frank adds.

Jeb’s eyes shot down the hallway to see a man in officer’s garb strutting down this way with much more authority than he actually had.

“Dag-nab-it, Frank. Get him quiet.” Jeb says as he tosses me to Frank’s awaiting arms.

I don’t quite remember what I saw, let alone what actually happened. And Jeb loves to hold this one over me, so I don’t even waste time refuting his outrageous claims of fighting off whole battalions from arresting me. All I know for certain, is that he ran to meet that pompous man and his whole entourage before they could get a good look at me. There was some crashing, maybe a fake slip or something, but enough of a distraction where Frank finished the job and got me calmed down in time.

Leave it up to the redneck to cause a stir. Must’ve been all in a day’s work for somebody used to wrangling horses and five younger siblings. Frank and I poke our fun, but we both are mighty glad that cowboy hung up his spurs for the Corps. And I hate to admit it, but it is fun to talk like him sometimes.

Frank and I were there to greet him upon his return from BM’s office.

“What’s the verdict?” started Frank.

“Oh nuttin’ bad. I swore up and down it was a God’s honest mistake. I mean, we all know how wet those airlock doors can be! Account o’all the H too Oh condensinating as we come in, right?” Jeb finishes with a wink.

“See! I do listen to them science officer briefs too!” he added.

Instead of poking fun as usual, I just slapped on his back and thanked him for covering for me. Frank grinned in recognition of our joint, undiscussed decision, and he slapped him too. We all turned and headed to the chow ward, following the masses of people being summoned by the low toned horn sounding in the station.

Normally I would hate that sound as a reminder of how I feel more like a numbered head of cattle rather than an actual human on this space station, but the unexplainable joy I had from being with two kindred spirits so far from the lives we all left, blocked out the annoyance and desolation akin to my life here. In fact, it was moments like this that really baffled me, because with each day of anguish aboard the UNS America, I usually always had a couple moments like this. Enough spots of joy and laughter to paint the dark canvas bright.

Frank somehow retains a positive outlook every day, and he always says that happiness comes not from circumstance, but from your conscious choice. Well, I chose to have friends like this around me, and that makes my circumstance much better. So maybe there is somethin’ to those stoic books he’s always reading.

Just as we sit down with our issued rations, our laughter swells, but an alarm breaks the frivolity.

“All crew, to stations!”.