If you ever did believe.
Because Octobers used to be dreary and brilliantly colored, all at once. Overcast all the time, rain dripping through rapidly-disintegrating roofs of red, orange, yellow, purple-brown, and a few green holdouts. Damp concrete beneath white-toed sneakers that peeped out from under cheap, mass-made blue jeans growing ragged at the heel. The smell and feel of loam, the rot you sink into at the bottoms of the piles of leaves. Sodden brown bark drying to a lighter silvery-gray.
She used to walk her neighbor's dog for extra cash after school on Wednesdays, when she had track practice earlier in the afternoons. Sprinting through a workout to get home five minutes faster. Early enough so she could spend another hour in the brisk, damp breeze that tumbled down her suburban street. She wrapped a faded purple leash around her wrist as the dog tugged her further, further. She traded all this so that she could fly; she'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Now Octobers blend into every other month, marked by fuel-scented air. Dull gray walls that light up with streaks and smears when the cargo bay doors are opened in full light. Dust from various worlds that she can never sweep out entirely. She doesn't run anymore - there's nowhere to run to. There's no room. Running up and down the stairs, over and over and over again is the best she can do for entertainment during downtime.
There are no animals to take care of. Obviously, though it didn't seem all that obvious to her when she first signed on. There's no place for them to shit, to play. They'd use valuable food. Still, she misses birds, cats, dogs, gerbils. Anything with a heartbeat that would love her unconditionally. But she never presses the issue. She traded everything she knew for the sky, the machinery, the black, the adventure. For light that flashes through millions of light-years and still sears the cornea. For darkness so cold, it'll freeze you in seconds. For never belonging to one place or another. Home is a small carrier vessel filled to the brim with stale recycled air. She'll leave when they carry her out..
She used to walk her neighbor's dog for extra cash after school on Wednesdays, when she had track practice earlier in the afternoons. Sprinting through a workout to get home five minutes faster. Early enough so she could spend another hour in the brisk, damp breeze that tumbled down her suburban street. She wrapped a faded purple leash around her wrist as the dog tugged her further, further. She traded all this so that she could fly; she'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Now Octobers blend into every other month, marked by fuel-scented air. Dull gray walls that light up with streaks and smears when the cargo bay doors are opened in full light. Dust from various worlds that she can never sweep out entirely. She doesn't run anymore - there's nowhere to run to. There's no room. Running up and down the stairs, over and over and over again is the best she can do for entertainment during downtime.
There are no animals to take care of. Obviously, though it didn't seem all that obvious to her when she first signed on. There's no place for them to shit, to play. They'd use valuable food. Still, she misses birds, cats, dogs, gerbils. Anything with a heartbeat that would love her unconditionally. But she never presses the issue. She traded everything she knew for the sky, the machinery, the black, the adventure. For light that flashes through millions of light-years and still sears the cornea. For darkness so cold, it'll freeze you in seconds. For never belonging to one place or another. Home is a small carrier vessel filled to the brim with stale recycled air. She'll leave when they carry her out..