BHS Inkwell 2017-2018

Twenty-Eight By Jenna Massey

sliding to fill every empty area in her torso as the pod tumbles downward. She regrets ever taking this job, ever joining the agency, ever studying aerospace and what might lie beyond Earth’s atmosphere. She regrets double, no, triple checking every component of the landing mechanisms. There is too much blood rushing to her head to focus, and spots dance menacingly in her turning vision. Ernest. Halley’s hands itch to wrap around a bottle that isn’t there; one last drink before the ocean drinks her would be enough to calm her nerves, but of course there isn’t a drop of liquor up here, and alcohol hasn’t passed her lips since- Ernest died two years back, bleeding out in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla. It was a stupid, shameful way to go; both Ernest and the car’s driver had been too drunk to consider the dangers of driving themselves anywhere, and to make a short story shorter, the car had careened off the side of the highway into a rocky ravine. The police told Halley that he died painlessly on impact, but isn’t that what they tell every grieving, wife, mother, and sister? It was Halley who had to tell his family (“Yes, he was drinking. No, he wasn’t the driver.”), Halley who had to plan the funeral, and Halley who dropped the last rose on his casket. It was Halley who paid his bills and closed his accounts, Halley who visited his grave nearly every day to tell him stories and what the weather was like and who had won the latest

The countdown to crashtime is soft, a barely audible chime, and the consistency of it echos mockingly through the control room. It’s a metronome without an accompanying melody, a heartbeat without a source, and Halley wants more than anything for it to shut up. Slamming her fists against the center console of the ship, she wails and realizes that there isn’t sufficient time to even try to reverse the fall. In fact, as the spacecraft hurtles toward the unforgiving surface of the Pacific, it’s clear that there’s barely enough time for Halley to think. But she manages to think about Ernest. Halley was supposed to land tomorrow. After 586 days in space, she was going to land, and then she was going to see Ernest. She would have ducked into the car that waited patiently at the landing base, avoiding the flash of cameras and the cries of reporters from various scientific journals. She would have drummed her hands against the armrests of the seat, not noticing a single thing about life back on Earth until she reached him. Ernest. Halley hadn’t visited him in so long, longer even than the time she spent orbiting miles above the planet, and she was ready to tell him everything. He had always listened carefully to every word she said, and she loved him for it. Halley realized darkly that Ernest was an even better listener now that he didn’t say anything back, but he would want to hear all about her voyage. She was supposed to talk to him tomorrow. Halley vomits, her stomach

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