Not This Third Thing

Some say nothing comes after, some say everything.

Spinning... I find myself flipping end over end as things rush past. Metal things that leave a harsh sensation, like tasting ozone, ramble through me. Plastic things rush into my top part, and all goes dark until they pass. Soft-bodied, red things pass through me, and a wave of familiar sensations washes over me—hope, laughter, frustration, excitement.

I claw and snatch at those feelings half-remembered. One of the soft-bodied things yells out as I sift through them. That one tastes spikey, like fear. I hold on for a fraction of a second longer than everything else. But it isn’t enough. Sounds I recognize as words follow me as I slide out the back end. Obstruction and Electrical Interference.

I am alone.

I see it now, as it continues on its path. The International Space Station, making its 90-minute commute. I don’t even know what I am, but I do know this. Because the soft-bodied thing thought it as I clung. There are currently 10 of those soft—people aboard.

People... a person. That’s what I am.

What I was. Now I am an obstruction.

A partial view of the Earth from space, as a satellite orbits nearby.

Floating high above the blue and white and brown sphere that I used to call home, I am transfixed. Had I breath to catch it would catch, as I admire its beauty. Virginia? No, that’s not quite right, but it is at the same time.

I’ll come back to it.

A thin blue shell glows brightly just above the atmosphere. It’s protection. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. For a time, I am content. The glowing blue shell calms me. Light and shadow of the sun and moon glide across the surface, and the clouds roll across the ocean. They clump together in swirling patterns, the word hurricane comes to me, and I know there is a storm brewing down below. I hope nobody dies.

Died.

I died.

And now I am here. That can’t be right. Death is supposed to be nothing, or everything. One of the two. Not this third thing.

This is middling.

Judgemental. That’s what they called me when I pushed people away, working too much, loving too little. A wave of loneliness washes over me, and the familiarity brings a new despair. It is not a stranger. I died alone.

Electrical impulses bristle my outsides and tug at my center. I tear my eyes away from the Earth— EARTH!— down below and look up. The ISS is making its way back around. It’s moving fast. Maybe I can grab on, to stay with them, to not be alone.

This time with more restraint and less spinning. Stretching myself, I grasp. My bits pass through the computers; it tingles and stings with static, and sparks fly. A red light comes on, and someone swears.

Sorry!

Another person comes close, and I flap open, wrapping around them. They were concentrating on something, a deep fascination with plants? They miss their dog, and I am cocooned in the warmth of love and a memory of joy. They sneeze, and I am jogged free. And just like that, they are gone.

They’ll be back, and I can try again.

Unfurling, I spread myself, testing the boundaries of this form. If I stretch too far, the whisps fray at the edges, and I lose pieces. I’ve lost too much already, so I contract enough to prevent this. I can make myself flat like a tent or a net. ready to catch my quarry. Here I can spend eternity. With them, and then new people as they come and go. A home among the computers and plants and scientists and experiments and feelings that I can’t feel on my own. And then one day, when I have felt everything, I can hitch a ride with one of them and go back home, back down to the surface where I came from, where we belong.

Static, tugging, anticipation.

The ISS barrels down the path, and this time I envelop the whole thing. I am holding on, and it is not passing through. Sparks crackle, and the lights and electricity flicker, and everything goes dark. The people inside scramble, quickened heartbeats, sweat, heat. Someone is praying. More words. Orbital and Boosts and Power and Down and Houston and Problem.

Someone cries, and I focus on that one. It’s their child’s birthday, and they were supposed to have a call. Coms are down. I did that.

A hand slams in frustration. The lights for the plant testing are off. The results will be altered, and they will have to start over. I did that.

If they can’t get the power back on, they will not be able to thrust to keep the trajectory. They will fall. They will die. I can’t do that.

Retracting is easier than expansion, and I push my form into a ball. I remember doing something similar, hiding under a blanket, during a storm. Becoming small. Letting the rising waters take me. In much the same way, I let the ISS pass through me, and the lights flicker on. I feel their relief as they go. I did that.

The ISS makes its way around the planet and out of my sight, threading the dark alleyway between the Earth’s atmosphere and the glowing blue shell. I wonder if I can move out of their path. I turn away from the planet below and toward the blue shell above. The shell has a hole. And suddenly I know.

That was where I was supposed to go.

I stretch myself out again and will my form to rise to meet the shell. My edges connect with its edges as I fill the missing piece, and I begin to glow blue. I was never alone.

It is made of me.

Of us.