Gracefall
"Ever since I was a little girl, all I wanted was to see the stars. A foolish dream, I'm told. By my brother. Mother. Especially my grandmother. Truth be told, I see it as an escape. Having friends, going to sleepovers, a first kiss... that's never been my life. Not to the letter, anyway. But that's the beautiful thing about space. Even under the cynical and, frankly, quite depressing guise I've based my ambitions on, the vast nothingness beyond our plane of existence can be anything you want it to.
"Isn't that right, Rosie? Um, for those who don't know, Rosie is my beautiful Samoyed; ex-puppy turned gigantaur. Look them up if the breed sounds unfamiliar. They have white coats of fur. Very fluffy. Truly an empty canvas, which is sort of the theme I'm going for here. God, I really am boring, aren't I? Full disclosure: my sweet girl passed about two years ago. But. Sometimes I talk to her. There are, hold on, some doodles around here somewhere— ah! Well, you can't see them, I guess. Awkward. And, you probably don't care to have me describe them to you. Just know they are expertly done, uh, in crayon. Nobody here to judge.
"Gosh, it really is easy to ramble when it's to no one in particular. Oh! Have I said my name yet? My friends and family call me Grace. But I go by, well, Grace. Either is fine. Last I checked I was, one second, sorry, I also have a calendar underneath all this mess. Let's say 31 years old. That's not a 'oh-I'm-going-to-lie-about-my-age-to-sound-younger' rib, as hilarious as those tend to be. I've simply lost track. Makes me sound stupid, I suppose. Easy to do from where I'm standing.
"It's interesting. And I've never said this out loud before; it's only rattled about my mind when I'm trying to sleep or otherwise concentrate. But. As much as I crave being alone, none of us truly want that, do we? Just how humankind is wired. Tragic how my warped sense of self-worth has led me to see that as a flaw. Why do we need people? It just makes it all the more depressing for those of us who are deeply introverted.
"The idea was always: make it to the great black void, explore and kick some ass when need be. Daddy made it look easy. Bit of a vigilante, he was. Erm, still could be, I suppose. The man is still out there. ...somewhere. I've only recently discovered who he was. Is! Got to stop that. 'The Wanderer', people mutter in hushed tones, speaking of the one who goes from place to place, seemingly absent purpose—but only to those who fail to look beyond the surface. Which is most. Myself included at times. Ah, but please don't misconstrue things. This isn't me searching for him, hoping to be reunited in a flourish of heartfelt banter with some rando standing by, ready on the violin. His name would be Sven. Dressed in a little bowtie, a vest, over top an old-fashioned, puffy white shirt. Like a pirate?
Anyhow. Let me put this into perspective. For a rather large portion of my life, I wasn't even aware of who he was. A mere ghost. And my mother would hardly talk about him. Which did very little to disperse the veil of mysticism surrounding the man. All anyone seems to agree upon is that a nameless criminal is gallivanting about, killing as he pleases, fucking whichever woman he chooses... a true gypsy. A violent one at that. Would you believe the two of us had a run-in, way before I discovered our relation to one another? I'll take your lack of reply as stunned silence. My gram and I were walking through Earth's spaceport. I was young. My mum was largely responsible for the world's first craft capable of lightspeed. Well, not really. She was the chief medical officer on-hand should anyone feel sick or be partially disintegrated by radioactive space debris. Happened to Harold, a janitor. Oh, Harold. Now he mops in circles. 'Don't let anyone ever stand in the way of your dreams. Nobody's perfect. That includes the people who make the rules. Never stop fighting, ya hear me?' That's what my father told me during a brief moment of respite as guards were in pursuit. Someone with a badge was always on the prowl, hoping to be the one who'd finally bring The Wanderer to justice. Haunts me to think perhaps he knew exactly who this little girl he had stumbled upon was. Even if that proves not to be the case... why leave us? Surely, my gram or my mother had recognized him that day. How could they not say anything? Life is full of harsh realities. Children need to be made aware of them. Or. Maybe they don't. Guess I get my independent streak from him. The irony. Here I am complaining about his incessant need to be completely free of others when I myself do the very same. Still. seems heartless.
"Wow, I have rambled for far too long. Apologies. If by some miraculous odds you're still listening, major props. You must really be bored. Which can happen on occasion. To recap, my faithful follower—singular—I do love it up here. Silence is deafening, sure. But, for better or worse, it's one thing I crave. That and to explore the unknown. My unsolicited advice? Be weird. Make your own path. Don't listen to what others have to say. Unless they make you smile. Keep them close. Never push them away. It may feel right in the moment, but... well. You get the point. I try to end these when I can feel myself losing steam, repeating every other word. What cheesy cliché have I not mentioned yet? Oh, stay true to yourself. Awfully important, that one. Down, Rosie! Okay. Bye, beautiful! Till tomorrow. Whenever that is."
"Oh, Grace," a woman whispered, distraught, audio log in hand. Her spacesuit was tattered, cheeks singed with thin trails of blood falling from every patch of ash. "Please wake up." She looked on from a distance, carefully monitoring Grace's lifeless body which lay dormant in a cave that had been carved out of a large rock wall. A billowing cloud of smoke continued to pour from her ship.