Therapy: Space
When there are only three people in front of me in the queue, I climb into my spacesuit. It is lightweight, made for short excursions or sitting in the rovers, not long days out on the drills.
The woman behind me double checks the fastenings, just like I did for the person in the line in front of me. Common courtesy. I nod my thanks.
The queue inches forward. No one talks. No one makes eye contact. Just a quiet shuffle towards the hatch.
I start fiddling on my pad. Work is coming in. Messages need answering. Emergency at home. Did I remember to prepare lunch for the kids because they’ll be going out on that learning spacewalk and they need to bring food with them, and he can’t do it because reasons.
The woman behind me taps my shoulder and I glance up from my pad. My turn.
I lower my visor, and there’s a quiet hiss as it seals shut. Then I climb through the hatch into the isolation room, scan my wrist near the door, and step into the airlock. The machinery cycles, and a cool voice reminds me to tether. I agree, then turn off my radio.
The door slides open, and everything is silent. I don’t look left or right. I try not to glance over at the other people umbilically attached to the tiny mining asteroid. They have their own reasons for being out here. I attach the magnetic end of my tether to the outside of the home hub, and climb up until there is darkness at the edges of my vision.
I stare out into the void. Dark and stars and a bajillion miles away a sun that doesn’t look much bigger than the stars.
I take a deep breath.
Then I scream, and I scream, and I scream.
Emma Burnett is a researcher and writer. She has had stories in MetaStellar, Elegant Literature, The Stygian Lepus, Roi Fainéant, The Sunlight Press, Fairfield Scribes, Five Minute Lit, Microfiction Monday, and Rejection Letters. You can find her @slashnburnett, @slashnburnett.bsky.social, or emmaburnett.uk.
