Young Writers Society

     And so, with the unearthed, atramentous sky, the effervescent light radiating off the sun dances in the ineffable skies of a billion shining stars and eight amiable planets that lay just beyond Reed’s gloved fingertips. To become real is beyond our means of comprehension. When we die and even our bones turn to dust, who is to say that we did exist? Planets die, and they have so much more meaning than that of a single human. Everything is fleeting, running away from what we know. For those to feel, ‘Am I real? Should I be real? Can I feel? Or is it just the universe being cruel? What is true cruelty? To be unreal, or to be real?’. Existence is even beyond our comprehension, but, for once, it finally felt small to the overseer.

Multiple small comets pass in the distance.

“I wonder what a man on the moon thinks about. Does he think of Earth when he feels lonely? Has he ever gazed at the Earth with longing, when there is no one back there waiting for him? I wonder what kind of thoughts he has.”

     Reed ponders, mumbling the last part halfheartedly and coughing up blood at the end. Three hours, just a few scarce moments to him. They say, ‘life is too short’, but they just didn’t know how to live it.

     Large, bold letters reading, ‘OXYGEN LEVELS CRITICAL’, flash beside small, red lights scintillating against the aluminum silicate glass; beyond the foretold ‘safety’ of the Tin-Can, is absolutely nothing. Time seems to slow as the soft beeping echoes throughout the spacecraft. Just three more hours, and it will all be over. Reed laughs deeply, immediately turning into a bloody coughing fit. He almost finds it strange that he welcomes death with such ease that it would cause shivers to run up and down a madman’s spine; then again, who would blame him during this surreal epidemic? Blood begins to trickle down his throat, some dripping from his chin and onto his heavy spacesuit.

“Is this when all the greats reimburse the ones they’ve wronged? Rearranging their final answers to meet the criteria that of a wise man’s life, like a child, cheating off another’s test so ‘Daddy’ can boast about something to the other parents during luncheon?”

     Reed calls out warily to the dead, naiveté captain aside him, old venom dripping from his wavering words like wet paint leftover from a coat too thick. Chuckling lightly at his ‘words of wisdom’, his eyelids suddenly feel heavy, and he suddenly feels old.

---

     Seventeen years Reed Kamashi sat up there on his rooftop questioning existence itself as if he holds the authority to do so. He quite clearly remembers the night he pondered once more, would the universe even bat an eye at him if he decided to jump? Would he float away and nest among the stars? ‘The only witness is us’ the stars echo, like an unspoken falsehood of a promise created at the Beginning. This world Reed has been chained down by expectations and fleeting opportunities is nothing compared to the stars, they’re like a fairy tale; a dream that touches your soul. He’s been trapped in his head for days and the suffering won’t end due to his ‘forbidden knowledge’. He called out to into the nights’ skies:

“Would you do it, would you take that final ‘leap of fate’ to finally have a place, a place among the stars and all of the Greats?”

     The question went unanswered, of course, but he already knew it: in fact, everybody born on this dying planet did. It was the unspoken truth of humanity. Who wouldn’t try and escape from the deathly cold grip of reality? Life is inherently meaningless and none of your actions matter. Trying to create any sort of temporary meaning is just an avoidance strategy of your primal brain physiology to keep your flesh prison working under made-up rules, laws, principles and all kinds of establishments. He had a pit of regret rest in his stomach after the words had left his lips. Reed’s eyes had widened like two small moons after realizing what he had said, questioning his own God’s Plan was disrespectful enough, but outright calling it false? It was beyond himself and was intolerable, to put it mildly. If his Father had caught wind of this… Reed didn’t want to think about what the old priest would’ve done to him this time. 

     The clouds flashed angrily above him. Lightening violently struck the roof causing his ears to ring inside his head. Sparks flew across the sky, burning his face. Reed blocked his eyes and slid down the burning roof. Reed stumbled down into the wet grass and clumsily fell into his room from the window. He fell onto his hardwood floor with a grunt, causing his Father to yell from the other room in annoyance. He frantically peered out the window to find the shiplap wood perfectly intact. No fire, no thunderstorm, and no angry Gods. One thing was left behind, his face was still bleeding from the burns. Reed sat there for a few more moments, catching his breath and telling himself that it would be best to forget about the roof. He tried his best.

---

     Almost falling from his chair, Reed jumps to attention. Instantly regretting the sudden movement, he grips his left side and clenches his teeth as crimson blood starts to pool around the fresh wound on his lower torso. I can’t die like this, not here, not like him. Reed glares down at the rotting corpse of Captain Smith with newfound confidence. The body lays on the floor, a meter or so away from Reed. Blood oozes from his head due to the bullet hole shot square in the middle of his pale forehead. Reed looks away in pure disgust. Not in some empty vacuum millions of lightyears away from home. He breathes in a few short breaths, the air is thinner than it had been a couple of hours ago.

     He spins his chair with a grunt. Reed’s eyes land on a singular pitch-black terminal in front of him, hovering over a large control panel; reluctantly ignoring multiple screens presenting an interior and exterior model of the ship’s engines, the damaged areas flashing red followed by more irritating beeping of cacophony. The digital clocks seem to speed up on the computers, dreadfully reminding him of the time he’s wasted with his sulking; the air supply won’t last forever at this rate. He vigorously flips multiple switches on the control panel and looks at the taunting blank screen. Hoping. Wishing. The screen lights up, displaying the words, ‘NASA’. Cheering silently, Reed gets to work. His fingers fly across the keyboard, connecting to a hopefully nearby satellite station so he can communicate with other evacuation ships. Inserting a code, Reed waits with high hopes in mind. The computer whirls and flashes red in distress. Something’s wrong.

     Reed shouts curses at the oh-so-familiar blank screen and thinks of a new strategy. To stabilize the engines, he would need to physically reach them. But at the same time, Reed needs to reboot the system or else the engines wouldn’t work correctly. Without somebody rebooting the computer mainstream, the engines would be offline unless both were activated and connected at the same time. Thinking quick, Reed grabs some rope from a wall, blood dripping after him. Reed wraps his free hand around the lever and pulls hard, grunting in pain. On trigger, the small spacecraft explodes with life and soft humming of machinery in approval. Reed quickly ties the fraying white rope around the activated lever, replacing his hand. He tugs on it, making sure it stays down. As for the other end, he ties it onto the bottom of his secure chair, keeping the rope taut. Reed leans against the window, gripping his side in hope to stop the gushing blood. It wouldn’t take long to reboot the computer, but he doesn’t know the complete extent of the damage to the ship; so theoretically, it could take up to ten minutes or more to reboot and Reed doesn’t have that kind of time to waste. The rope groans from the pressure, though it should hold.

     Reed bends over, hand still gripping his side furiously, for better access underneath the control panel. He opens a small compartment with a bloody hand to reveal its containments: a circular helmet. He pauses. Gently lifting the authentic helmet from under the control panel, he inspects it looking for any indents that could potentially cause a problem ending fatally for him. He blows some debris off the visor and sets it beside the array of buttons and switches he didn’t know the half of. He carefully sits down. Reed’s hand drifts over a small Space Invaders sticker on the visor. He smiles fondly at the memory. The sun was warm that day. The mood changes. Shaking his head grimly, Reed places the helmet on his head; therefore, if possible, further matting down his chocolate brown hair against his sweaty forehead. All emotion wiped from his expression, he locks the helmet on. Cool air fills his suit as an alarm sounds, signaling the final dozen or so minutes of fresh air the ship could offer. Reed’s auburn eyes were now slightly clouded over with vague nostalgia.

That, or it is simply the lack of oxygen finally getting to him.

---

     Reed tears his way through the nightmare's inextricable grand finale. His consciousness finally penetrates and is thrown into the threshold of a sanctuary he calls reality. Stumbling over his hot, raspy breaths, Reed doubles over himself, lungs demanding more air. His heart is banging against his ribs, chest threatening to burst from its own beating innards. It feels as if he’s desperately clutching onto the last thin thread of sanity within him. If he lets go... there will be nothing left.

     Damp hair slips out in front of Reed’s stunned expression. The fine hairs puckering out like little needles jabbing at his exposed skin. He tries to scream, he tries to cry out; no sound leaves Reed’s lips. His throat is cracked and parched. Nightmare failing to subside, Reed blinks hard, attempting to unsee what cannot be unseen. Unquenchable fear hides inside Reed’s watering, bloodshot eyes, the emotion painted a dark shade of red, as if the artist spilled human blood on the top of his canvas. It was almost like the artist ‘forgot’ to clean up the mess of blood they made, and instead allowed it to dry into a darker shade; introducing it as a sick new form of 'creativity’. To them, it’s nothing but a pretty new addition to their esteemed oeuvre. Torn bodies are the only suitable decor for such a nightmare, they're scattered without plan, nor thought, floating across the mortifying battlefields of an empty vacuum. After all, you cannot have one without the other.

     The traumatizing image is branded on the innards of Reed’s eyelids, refusing to let him forget, refusing to let him hide. Reed’s entire being trembles, so scared of the vivid dreams, as if they're a hidden reality. Sunlight beams haphazardly into the small apartment, not fretting about its timorous, apprehensive intruder. The nightmares are returning, if that's what you’re supposed to call these ghastly battles for sanity, or even a little peace during these dark after hours. They just always feel so... uncannily real. It’s as if I was there myself, like these nightmares hap-

A frightening thought emerges from Reed’s delusional mind.

     He grabs his numb head with shaking hands and groans, pushing back some stray strands of dark brown hair in the process. Reed’s breaths are still uneven and filled with fearful worry, the gruesome side effects don't normally last so long.

Am I finally losing it?

     Pitch black darkness invades, answering his question. Reed’s mind slips from his grasp like water through stones, tumbling down deep into the depths of wavering shadows alongside his other senses. Reed submits for he cannot claim victory in this battle for the state of mind.