I have been stranded on this strange world for 156 days. My craft has disintegrated into little more than a paper shell. Escape has gone from improbable to impossible. The sadness I feel over this cold reality is crippling.
I spend my days observing the local wildlife. I watch their peculiar mode of transport. They hold themselves up as though they are superior to all other inhabitants of their planet. I’ve not made contact. I’ve considered it. There are days when I feel it would break my depression and end this monotony. But this is a wild race—barbaric and cruel amongst their kindred. I can only surmise what my fate would be in their determined claws.
Not that I want to wallow in self-pity. After all, I didn’t get eaten today.
Day 163—A native almost found my hideout this morning. I rolled to the furthest darkest corner and froze in fear. I watched the wild beast search out the darkness. I remained deathly still. A moment passed. And then another—until the creature grew bored and moved on with his ritual.
I relaxed and resumed my diligent study of this species. I’ve elected to call them H-1. I’ve no real reasoning. It just came to me as I was foraging. All good scientists have a catalog of specimens. Unfortunately the H-1 are too numerous and too large to take a proper sample. But at least I can reference them in my notations.
As I always, I end my entry with a deep breath, thankful that I didn’t get eaten.
I’ve lost track of the days. Time seems to shuffle in shifts, light then dark, then light again. It’s a never ending tedium. The H-1 seldom notices. They come and go oblivious to their surroundings. Every surface, every crumb of food seems to exist solely for the H-1 to conquer and devour. Greedy bastards.
I tell myself it isn’t right to judge them so harshly. I should remain neutral and not fall prey to my own inadequacies. It isn’t the H-1’s fault that I’m to die in this cesspool—likely by starvation. I’m so lost in thought that I don’t spot the youth until it’s too late. She’s a beautiful example of her race, a prize for any zoologist’s collection.
She snatches me up as if I’m naught but a feather. She rolls me between her fingers and squeals with unabated joy. I scream but my cries fall on deaf ears. She licks her lips and pulls me closer to her. I see the teeth that will grind me to bits. I stop screaming and close my eyes. I don’t want to see my demise—experiencing it is quite enough.
The youth shoves me into her mouth and crunches down on my bones. I feel my head pop—it’s a bizarre sensation. My consciousness is freed and floating even as the H-1 dines on my corpse. I feel that I’m coming to terms with my body challenged existence when I hear a loud shriek. “What are you eating? Haven’t I told you not to eat off the floor? Well? Haven’t I?”
The little one begins to cry and her mother swipes her finger in the infant’s mouth. The bitch discards my remains in the trash. I’m laminating the advantages of simply going in to the light and not bearing witness to the desecration of my flesh when the woman exclaims; “Honestly Rachel! You could get dysentery.” She clucks and mutters under her breath. I watch helplessly as my form spills onto the pile of waste. The mother still ranting, “All of this over a dirty green M&M? Unbelievable. If you’d asked I’d have gotten you a fresh bag from the vending machine.”