Tortured Muse

From his window, he watched the people below mill in and out of the art gallery across the street. A new exhibit had just opened. Some well known figurative painter or something. The paintings looked crude to him from what he saw on the gallery’s website. But what did he know? He wasn’t an art critic.  The day was gray and rainy, and he was surprised by the number of people who did not have umbrellas. But they seemed happy.  Even the old man with glasses and mustache leaning up against the wall looked happy, his swollen arthritic knees making his khakis hang oddly. What a drag it is getting old.   He watch the people laughing, hugging, meeting. A whirlwind of activity. He sensed the joy, but could not relate. With a sigh, he went back to his work. And the people below became nothing but ghosts.

He closed his eyes, focused on his breath, and tried to center himself. The nausea came in waves and seem to saturate every fiber of his being. He tried to detach himself from the physical discomfort and become a dispassionate observer. It took four tries and seven different techniques until he became that floating eyeball. He opened his eyes and observed the chaos that was all around him.   It was grim. The mission had gone sideways and there would be hell to pay for it.

His life support HUD was blinking yellow.  His air filtration system had been compromised. The air in his suit was now a slightly toxic mix.  Nothing that would kill him, but it was causing the nausea.  His team members were nowhere in sight and there was nothing to do but move forward. He gingerly stood up and began to plunge ahead into the darkened airlock.