'Discontinuity' - by Daniel Orrett

One thousand, five hundred and eighty days, seventeen minutes and counting.

CONTENT WARNING: This short contains themes of self-harm and suicide, as well as derealization and survivor's guilt.

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Fair winds!

Full Transcript: 

I gave the order.

The fireball filled the screen, and they were gone.

Can’t remember everything after that, not the hours, or the days. Like a trance. But I remember the feeling, like drowning.

Something pulls me back. I’m in the elevator, off the quarterdeck, the door closed. I'm on the ground, against the bulkhead. They told me later that I ordered a search and rescue, that I stood the ship down and singalled for support. But I don’t remember. Only the feeling, like drowning.

Seconds later, or days, I'm in Admiralty House. They’re going to cover it up. I tried to stop them. I think I tried. Wouldn’t matter either way. They wouldn’t listen.

He’s there. He doesn't look at me. But it doesn't hurt this time. I’m not really there. I’m on the quarterdeck, drowning.

Time moves forward, or backward, I don’t know, and then I'm a data courier. Pioneer-Axius Drift Lane. I’m alone. Tiny ship. Four walls, one airlock, one seat. How long have I been here? How long would I be here? Doesn't matter.

Download the comm data. Fly through the gate. Transmit.

Download. Through the gate. Transmit.

Download. Through the gate. Transmit.

Download. Through the gate. Transmit.

Drowning. Through the gate. Transmit.

Through the gate. Drowning. Through the gate. Transmit.

Time moves sideways. I'm back. Atamara. I can see it through the viewport, from the tiny ship. Four walls, one airlock, one seat. Did I fly here? Am I awake? Doesn't matter.

Into the airlock. Drowning. No seal detected. Safety alarm. I can’t hear it. Won’t.

Inner door closes. Atamara. I can see it through the viewport, from the tiny ship. That’s where they were. Where I put them. I should be there too. I should be there *instead*. But this would do.

I don’t hear something. Another ship docking. Doesn't matter. Touch the panel, start the cycle. Depressurization alarm.

Someone’s there. Something pulls me back. I’m not in the airlock anymore. Can’t see. Tears? Blood? Doesn't matter.

Meds is there. She says something. “It’ll be ok.” She’s wrong.

Then I have a ship, lots of walls, lots of seats, lots of airlocks. My ship. My crew.

Time moves properly now, but I have to pretend. Smile when I'm supposed to, nod when I'm supposed to. Sit, stand, eat, sleep. I’m still drowning. I have to be. Wouldn’t be fair if I wasn’t. They both know, but they help me pretend.

1580 Days, 17 minutes later. I’m far away, and far between. They found us on the planet. Brought us back. It’s cold in the medbay. She’s lying on the bed.

She opens her eyes, and I am happier than I know how to be. I’m not pretending. Is this fair to them? Their eyes would never open. I don’t know the answer, so for now I am selfish, and don’t ask the question.