The ship rattles like a toy in a child's hand. The lights flicker and the metal groans, vibrations spread from the outside of the hull to the plasma core of the ship. The air reeks of ozone, and my ears pop. Space is a terrible place, and traversing it in this crappy generation ship that's falling apart by the second makes the experience even worse.
A big, pastel green bag takes up a whole table, surrounded by pacifiers, a stack of old-fashioned synthetic diapers and a handful of rainbow baby clothes. Behind the table, sits my mother the way I see her in my dreams, young, timeless. She's holding a three-year-old and talking to her friends.
I'm frozen there, fixated on the smile on my mother's face. The ship's journey must have already started and they're celebrating. I hear the words new worlds, chance, a future for our children, and I'd like to tell them that they're mistaken, that we'll be stuck in here for the next few centuries, but I don't.
But in my room, there is me as a five-year-old holding a tea party with my stuffed toys, and when I run to the medical bay - I really need a physical evaluation - there is me blowing candles for my eighth birthday, surrounded by other kids. Old friends.
Collection
[
|
...
]