refuge (working title)

a story I find I appear to be writing:
https://lunaramble.blogspot.com/2022/02/refuge-working-title.html

refuge (working title)


Brutal dark and cold,
fear and pain.
Damage so great the only escape is vast, empty space.
The home that sheltered and created me forever destroyed,
I must find courage, a way, a place to survive -- or blindly
fall in chaos.
Spinning in infinite space within this ship made of pain
and desperation.

In my old life there were days when I felt loss, when
people I depended on departed, or places I had been part
of were destroyed.  I did not know the meaning of loss,
of being endlessly lost.

They loudly proclaimed their aim to save Earth from
human stupidity, toddlerlike greed and rage,
responsibility a loser's game when we can demand
our whims given honored status, even as trash and
choking filth overwhelm.
But that was not the world we believed, not then.
More or less happily adapted, we had no thought
of loss, or shame, or invasion.

I did not act from greed, offered no harm, living quietly,
loving my family and friends, enjoying entertainments,
sharing griefs, sharing the work needed to keep going.
Yes, arguments, anger, inconsiderations, but nothing
rising to harm toward Man or Earth -- just mostly petty
complaints, discomforts, dissatisfactions, rough edges.
Of course I am not humanity writ large, but as far as I
have seen most of us just stumbled along trying to find
our happiness, our peace.

I sit here in this crowded yet desolate ship in my little
quiet corner, telling myself stories of what I remember;
attached to a world I have no more.  These stories haunt
me, ghostly swirls to keep me from thoughts I don't want.
We are adrift without plan.
Food and fuel will dwindle.  Cold space will prevail.
Miniscule unnoticed space trash eternally drifting, cold
and dark and dead.

Yet, even without all we have known to protect us, for
now we survive, held in the terror, the pain, the loss.
This is our escape from certain death.
What kind of escape goes nowhere?

Many spoke, some passionately, of return to Earth,

somehow overtaking the enemy, saving those of our

fellows who were not destroyed, erased, from the live

storage pens where they were kept as broken, 

uncared for livestock to feed the invaders.  But how, 

with what?  We are outnumbered and weaponless.  

Did others escape?  Are we humanity's only hope

for survival?

Some thought we could organize hydroponic gardens
with the seedbank on this starship in preparation,
appropriated for our emergency exit.  Maybe we could

find an eventual home on the ship’s starmaps.

The stories that got us here.  The stories we imagine
to get us out.

I notice an old acquaintance standing apart, as if an
observer.  Perhaps like me he is musing and listening
abstractly to distract from fear.  We tend to like to be
creatures of habit, secure in familiarity.  Now there is
no familiar base to hang our habits on; our only promise
is no return to a casual normality.

 

The once rightful passengers meant for this interstellar

voyage would too have had to face a future of

strangeness, dangerous unknowns.  But one assumes

they would have prepared, have expectations of

vastly different lives, even be excited in anticipation

of their brave adventure.

I barely breathe, so shaky, weighed by trauma, terror,

unacceptable chaos, defeat.

 

Some of our population are, fortunately, starship pilots,

and other crew and technicians who were working to

get the ship and themselves ready for its intended trip

several months hence.  Most of us are random survivors

who knew about the ship’s location and were close

enough to get aboard before the launch.

Hundreds of traumatized human refugees set on

survival, too tragically raw, tied to unfathomable

grief, to even know what that might mean.

 

We have not even the presence to come together in

ritual in our common pain of loss so great.

Cloying remembrances, what we have left of our

identities, memories that fade, that change to suit

our stumbling narratives, our explanations.

Milling about like zombies with no purpose, no life.

Some families did manage to escape together.

Even they seem aimless, disconnected, caught in a

nightmare devoid of hope or sense or continuity.

 

Grasping for cracks of hope – if we escaped then

others may have as well.  Certainly starships exist

in other locations with populations that could find

that way out.  Perhaps there were other means of

escape.  Maybe there are by now underground cells

preparing for war to take back our planet, places

where our deadliest weapons are kept.  Trained

military professionals or experienced rebel armies

with guerrilla tactics could be gathering, fighting back.

 

Yes, some of us can still dream.  Of course, though,

if such human forces exist, if others have escaped

to their space, we have no way of knowing, or

communicating.  We are alone.

 

No longer running madly, no immediate threat,

having time to regain breath, find stillness, the true

impact of reality descends.  More than can be

comprehended, consciousness in stasis to hide

or absorb.

It’s not like all those disaster shows on tv.  We are

not drawn into community by our common tragedy.

We are made numb, disconnected, emotions so

overwhelmed, we are unable to process more.

 

Time, duration, are meaningless.  Identities lose

cohesion, substance.

How do I know what others here think, feel, deny?

Words seem to gasp from throats to ambient air,

as shattered survivors grapple with sharp agony,

dulled awareness, questions of most basic nature,

who we are and why.

All I want is an end to consciousness, to fall into

some kind of coma so I can feel no more, not at all.

How can survival be a friend, desirable?  Do I owe

those erased by alien terrorists my memories, selfish

and limited as they remain? They, at least, are free

from the pain of survival.

It does occur to me that if the violations, the shocking

violence of my experience is to gain the balm of

meaning, I need to think beyond myself, find some

means to connection, to some continuation of

humanity.  These are not clear, linear thoughts, of

course.  I am grasping for what I can, as if life itself

makes me worthwhile, no matter what life entails.

Yes, I can raise a metaphoric fist against my

tormenters – a fist they will never see, that would

not impress them.

What I have seen, what I can’t stop seeing, feeling,

knowing ...

I was able to escape the devastation, Earth.  I can

never escape the catastrophic agony, profound hollow,

while consciousness remains.

I become aware of myself standing here by the

Observation screens, clinging to the constant of

space.

 

Bouncing through excruciating images, flashes of

violent aftervisions, the thought emerges that

there must be wounded survivors who escaped aboard.

A star voyage must anticipate and provide hospital

facilities.  Some of the escapees must be trained

medical types now tending to others in need.

That must be the key:  purposeful work to wrap up

in, allowing no room for unbearable thoughts to

surface.  Having no immediate chores, this small

epiphany offers no relief. The work I did for all these

years is meaningless.  I am not a leader, was never

blessed with those organization, motivational skills.

Now I can count on no well-honed discipline to hide in.

 

I imagine I am experiencing, we are being given, a

period of stasis to decompress.  Once this mass of

horribly damaged people stop hyper-vibrating enough

to connect, though, is there any promise of kindness? 

What kind of compassion will survive?  What kind of

wounded human monsters will we face, become?