Last Hope/Lost Hope

Upon his presence, the automated closet opened. He reached inside to begin the painstaking chore ahead.

It takes him about 40 minutes to put on the isolating suit, but as it is a vital task he does it religiously each time. Like clockwork he follows the instruction that was left for him, he takes his responsibility for what it is, knowing his place in the mechanism. It’s been almost a year now, every single day taken into account in a small calendar in his working station; the only way he has to keep track of time.

By now, he’s tired beyond what the bare language he maintains can allow him to express, as he feels the fatigue in his bones he sighs for he knows he doesn’t have anyone to communicate his woes to.

Halfway into the process he ever executes so carefully he stares at the closet, at the engraved words on the top of the enclosure, “isolating suit” it reads. He is already isolated, regardless of the attire he is commanded to wear.

The air outside is toxic and unbreathable, the sun scorches like a demon and everything that’s reached by the sight of the naked eye is dry. The room that was prepared for him feels boxy and stuffed, everything so depersonalized and so reduced in space; perfect for one person, too crowded for two.

Before putting his helmet he looks at his room, just a few steps away; everything in the small station lacks personalization, yet this is all he has been for almost a year, everything is submerged in him. He begs to go back to better days, to be able to take a deep breath of fresh air, to be able to watch the sun go down into the horizon.

By now he knows those days are probably long gone.

He steps into the gate, which allows him to access the outside. The sun burns so bright it would probably blind him if he had his eyes unprotected; he can feel it too in his skin, going over the suit.

“That shouldn’t be happening” is all that crosses his mind as the suit keeps his temperature at a bearable level, cancelling the scorching heat from the exterior, he worries as he walks to his near destination; the only thing he can do all day long, the only thing that keeps him functioning.

He walks only a few meters out of his hermetic environment into the improvised greenhouse that was meant to be tested in the experiments. As usual, he checks on his crops, the little hope left in his heart drops slightly to his stomach, or maybe is his heart the one who leaps to his throat. They remain dead.

None of the instructions he had received had been able to produce a healthy harvest.

Lifting his stare, he looks away from the dry lots, into the sky. The sun hasn’t gone down for as long as he has been isolated, it hasn’t gone down since a few months prior to that.

As he walks back his mind races, he got a really hard area to work on, as the sun has been fixated on the sky right above him; he is on the spot where the midday sun is always on top of him, drying everything.

He fears his habitat could be the least fertile of all, nothing he does ever bears fruit. The food supply is running short, yet they haven’t stopped any of the experiments and observations for what is in his knowledge. He ponders on all the hopes of a bright future that were put on his shoulders were ever real.

Hesitating over what comes next, he goes inside, slightly more defeated. He sits in front of the bright screen in his working station.

He writes briefly his findings in the station log, it has remained the same for a few weeks now. Scrolling into older updates as he knows he shouldn’t, he had forbidden himself, yet it’s impossible not to check, counting the days, counting the weeks.

His head drops between his hands for a few seconds as he catches his breath; he needs to get out of that place in his mind.

Against his better judgment, he decides to check the interactions. Other stations seem to be active, but he’s definitely the most active of them all, reporting daily.

Others have reported recently having no resources or supplies left in storage.

He reports on his newest log that the suit he’s wearing requires a change, for it is wearing off and direct exposure to the sun could harm him considerably, if not kill him.

Holding a sigh in front of the despairing screen becomes a challenge, he doesn’t want to fall into desperation.

But he hasn’t had a proper reply in months. He hasn’t had proof of life in 3 months and 10 days.

He questions, why is everyone on the project that’s meant to put humanity afloat again going through such a terrible silence? Through not taking into account their own peers? The intrusive thought will hunt him for hours, but there’s no way he cannot ponder on this thought.

His colleagues are running short on supplies, on food, probably on equipment too, everyone is slowly going M.I.A. at the stations and those who were meant to read the logs have been silent for so long.

He wonders if there’s anyone left to stop the experiments.