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Description
He had heard the scream and reacted immediately, an old reaction that laid imprinted on his mind; being stranded all alone in this space station couldn’t take that away.

His heavy boots clunked an echo as he followed where he had heard it. The medical bay. I thought I was the only person here. It had been months and months of lonely isolation, and now with the message of someone ready to dock, his hopes were higher that his usual, stoic self would normally allow. With his gun held erect, he neared the end of the corridor. This was a big space station and he hadn’t been to the med bay in four months; there was no need to go there.

Another scream. A painful one. He rounded the corner and the doors slid open. Darkness enveloped this wing of the station, so he always had his guide-light on, but the next thing he saw startled him: A glow of gentle, golden light shone from one of the open doors ten feet ahead, piercing the darkness like sunlight through an open window. The room was concealed by metal walls but he could hear gentle voices of comfort from within--followed by the sound of a voice in pain. He thought, The Space Station does not possess imitation sunlight. Those light bulbs…they were only…found on Earth.

“Oh no!” he said and almost dropped his gun while taking a step back. He was hallucinating again. It had only happened twice since he was stranded there-- but it was a torment, images of his past that only brought pain. He shook his head and closed his eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real!” But the voices spoke up again and he found it strange that he didn’t recognize them. Another cry and words of comfort. His gut tightened and he froze. Someone was delivering a child. He had only seen one live birth in his life and it was his daughter’s. His daughter. He hadn’t seen her in seven years, she was twelve the last time he had seen her. A new pain pricked at his heart and he felt ashamed. She had died with his wife, Gale, on a shuttle that was on route to the lunar station to him after two years of no contact. The shuttle went up in flames and accidentally detonated (because of engine failure said the news). He was suddenly drawn to the comforting voices. Perhaps this was the memory of the birth of his daughter. He gave a weak smile. That was a good day--a day of rejoicing. He hesitated a moment more and then slowly stepped toward the light and lowered his flashlight and weapon.

He got to the open door and looked into the gently lit room. It was just one room, with a window on the far wall and an old-fashioned lamp with a high stand illuminating the space in a soft light. A woman, surprisingly not his wife, was sitting up on the delivery table with two other women in the room: A smiling woman with a face of joy holding the mother’s hand and the midwife. This wasn’t the birth of his daughter because he remembered being there--and he didn’t recognize the two aids. But the woman delivering he found was the striking resemblance of his own mother. She had died when he was three and all he had to remember her by were old photos. I get it, he thought with scorn, this is my birth. Going back a little far now, aren’t we? Why couldn’t he be in peace? Perhaps it was a way for his mind to cope with the loneliness. It was strange seeing his mother in person, her dark hair, soft, peanut skin. But there was something different about her that he couldn’t place. Maybe because this was an image of his mind, it was slightly off.

His mother experienced more pain and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue watching, but the entire ordeal was over in a matter of minutes and he watched with wonder as they wrapped the wailing infant up in clean cloth and attended to the mother. He stepped further into the room and up to the counter where the baby was still crying. So strange, so strange. It was all so real. He had the thought to reach out and touch the child but thought better of it. What’s wrong with me? I’m going insane. He clenched his gloved hand into a fist and turned, marching toward the door. “Why don’t you just leave me the Hell alone?” And then one of the other women said something that stopped him at the door.

“Congratulations, Sophie. It’s a girl.” He stiffened. Sophie?? A girl?? He turned and faced the trio, just in time to see the mother receive her daughter with streaming tears of joy. Sophie was not his mother’s name and he was sure he wasn’t a woman himself. He stared. Stared hard until his frustration disappeared and a tragic sense of shock and disbelief electrocuted him. He stopped breathing, felt the room teeter and barely whispered the name he’d never forget, “S…Sophie…” That was his daughter’s name. “Sophie?” He spoke with more strength. They couldn’t hear or see him, reminding him of a novel he had once read, but much to his surprise this was not the ghost of the past.

“No. No, that day with the…shuttle explosion…” Now that he saw her as his daughter, the mother on the table was similar to his mother but was much younger--nineteen, maybe twenty, the age Sophie would be now.
“You’re…you weren’t on the shuttle?” He thought back to that day and realized that it was never confirmed that his wife and daughter’s bodies had been recovered. It killed him to think of it. He wasn’t a careless man. Immediately dismissing the idea when despair fell upon him, he had tried and looked--by God he had looked for them, clinging to the feeble hope that they were still alive. It killed him because now, they were alive, which meant he hadn’t tried hard enough--but here she was. Sophie. His little girl. Grown up and with a child of her own!

Emotion overwhelmed him as well as the continuous spasms his brain provided from the sudden shock of it all. But this was just an illusion…of ill hope? No. He was here, Sophie was here. He found the humidity in the room intensify, sapping all the strength from his body, strangely starting from inside and working its way out. His vision became distorted and he felt unable to release whatever emotional pressure quaked his organs. He clutched his head, staring at his beautiful daughter and giving a whimper. “Sophie,” he spoke, his voice thick and rasping, “Sophie, Sophie…my little girl.” He fell to his knees but for a moment and stretched a gloved hand out to her. “You’re here, you’re alright.” He then stood on quivering legs and slowly made his way to the bed. He came up next to the bedside and gazed at his daughter’s smiling, sweaty face, she couldn’t stop gazing at the now sleeping infant in her arms, occasionally nuzzling it to her face affectionately. He blinked and kneeled bringing his face close to his granddaughter. “Oh, Sophie look what you’ve done. I’m so proud of you.” A natural paternal defense came on, a feeling he hadn’t felt for years, and he thought, By God, where’s the father?

His daughter looked over, as if she could see him--an action that caught him by surprise and she said, “Would you like to hold her, father?”

This startled him and he quickly stood. She couldn’t see him, no one could a moment before. He suddenly felt a rigid surface of dread but played along momentarily--to ease his own conscience of course. “Sure, of course, hon.”

She held the wrapped bundle to him with that gorgeous smile of love, and said, “Her name is Virginia.” He hesitated, and then slowly reached quivering hands out to hold the child. Every cell in him was now yelling, “Wrong, wrong, this is wrong!” His gloved hands got ever closer and he suddenly realized he still had his gun in his hand. He stopped, looked up to Sophie. Her smile disappeared. “Sophie…I…” He looked down to the child looking up at him with a gaze of fear. She began to cry--wail. He stepped back, guilt of distance and failure consuming him, “Sophie…sorry,” he began to lose control, tears heating his face, “I’m so sorry!”

The vision disappeared right at the moment two powerful arms clasped around his throat from behind.

Description
He had heard the scream and reacted immediately, an old reaction that laid imprinted on his mind; being stranded all alone in this space station couldn’t take that away.

His heavy boots clunked an echo as he followed where he had heard it. The medical bay. I thought I was the only person here. It had been months and months of lonely isolation, and now with the message of someone ready to dock, his hopes were higher that his usual, stoic self would normally allow. With his gun held erect, he neared the end of the corridor. This was a big space station and he hadn’t been to the med bay in four months; there was no need to go there.

Another scream. A painful one. He rounded the corner and the doors slid open. Darkness enveloped this wing of the station, so he always had his guide-light on, but the next thing he saw startled him: A glow of gentle, golden light shone from one of the open doors ten feet ahead, piercing the darkness like sunlight through an open window. The room was concealed by metal walls but he could hear gentle voices of comfort from within--followed by the sound of a voice in pain. He thought, The Space Station does not possess imitation sunlight. Those light bulbs…they were only…found on Earth.

“Oh no!” he said and almost dropped his gun while taking a step back. He was hallucinating again. It had only happened twice since he was stranded there-- but it was a torment, images of his past that only brought pain. He shook his head and closed his eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real!” But the voices spoke up again and he found it strange that he didn’t recognize them. Another cry and words of comfort. His gut tightened and he froze. Someone was delivering a child. He had only seen one live birth in his life and it was his daughter’s. His daughter. He hadn’t seen her in seven years, she was twelve the last time he had seen her. A new pain pricked at his heart and he felt ashamed. She had died with his wife, Gale, on a shuttle that was on route to the lunar station to him after two years of no contact. The shuttle went up in flames and accidentally detonated (because of engine failure said the news). He was suddenly drawn to the comforting voices. Perhaps this was the memory of the birth of his daughter. He gave a weak smile. That was a good day--a day of rejoicing. He hesitated a moment more and then slowly stepped toward the light and lowered his flashlight and weapon.

He got to the open door and looked into the gently lit room. It was just one room, with a window on the far wall and an old-fashioned lamp with a high stand illuminating the space in a soft light. A woman, surprisingly not his wife, was sitting up on the delivery table with two other women in the room: A smiling woman with a face of joy holding the mother’s hand and the midwife. This wasn’t the birth of his daughter because he remembered being there--and he didn’t recognize the two aids. But the woman delivering he found was the striking resemblance of his own mother. She had died when he was three and all he had to remember her by were old photos. I get it, he thought with scorn, this is my birth. Going back a little far now, aren’t we? Why couldn’t he be in peace? Perhaps it was a way for his mind to cope with the loneliness. It was strange seeing his mother in person, her dark hair, soft, peanut skin. But there was something different about her that he couldn’t place. Maybe because this was an image of his mind, it was slightly off.

His mother experienced more pain and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue watching, but the entire ordeal was over in a matter of minutes and he watched with wonder as they wrapped the wailing infant up in clean cloth and attended to the mother. He stepped further into the room and up to the counter where the baby was still crying. So strange, so strange. It was all so real. He had the thought to reach out and touch the child but thought better of it. What’s wrong with me? I’m going insane. He clenched his gloved hand into a fist and turned, marching toward the door. “Why don’t you just leave me the Hell alone?” And then one of the other women said something that stopped him at the door.

“Congratulations, Sophie. It’s a girl.” He stiffened. Sophie?? A girl?? He turned and faced the trio, just in time to see the mother receive her daughter with streaming tears of joy. Sophie was not his mother’s name and he was sure he wasn’t a woman himself. He stared. Stared hard until his frustration disappeared and a tragic sense of shock and disbelief electrocuted him. He stopped breathing, felt the room teeter and barely whispered the name he’d never forget, “S…Sophie…” That was his daughter’s name. “Sophie?” He spoke with more strength. They couldn’t hear or see him, reminding him of a novel he had once read, but much to his surprise this was not the ghost of the past.

“No. No, that day with the…shuttle explosion…” Now that he saw her as his daughter, the mother on the table was similar to his mother but was much younger--nineteen, maybe twenty, the age Sophie would be now.
“You’re…you weren’t on the shuttle?” He thought back to that day and realized that it was never confirmed that his wife and daughter’s bodies had been recovered. It killed him to think of it. He wasn’t a careless man. Immediately dismissing the idea when despair fell upon him, he had tried and looked--by God he had looked for them, clinging to the feeble hope that they were still alive. It killed him because now, they were alive, which meant he hadn’t tried hard enough--but here she was. Sophie. His little girl. Grown up and with a child of her own!

Emotion overwhelmed him as well as the continuous spasms his brain provided from the sudden shock of it all. But this was just an illusion…of ill hope? No. He was here, Sophie was here. He found the humidity in the room intensify, sapping all the strength from his body, strangely starting from inside and working its way out. His vision became distorted and he felt unable to release whatever emotional pressure quaked his organs. He clutched his head, staring at his beautiful daughter and giving a whimper. “Sophie,” he spoke, his voice thick and rasping, “Sophie, Sophie…my little girl.” He fell to his knees but for a moment and stretched a gloved hand out to her. “You’re here, you’re alright.” He then stood on quivering legs and slowly made his way to the bed. He came up next to the bedside and gazed at his daughter’s smiling, sweaty face, she couldn’t stop gazing at the now sleeping infant in her arms, occasionally nuzzling it to her face affectionately. He blinked and kneeled bringing his face close to his granddaughter. “Oh, Sophie look what you’ve done. I’m so proud of you.” A natural paternal defense came on, a feeling he hadn’t felt for years, and he thought, By God, where’s the father?

His daughter looked over, as if she could see him--an action that caught him by surprise and she said, “Would you like to hold her, father?”

This startled him and he quickly stood. She couldn’t see him, no one could a moment before. He suddenly felt a rigid surface of dread but played along momentarily--to ease his own conscience of course. “Sure, of course, hon.”

She held the wrapped bundle to him with that gorgeous smile of love, and said, “Her name is Virginia.” He hesitated, and then slowly reached quivering hands out to hold the child. Every cell in him was now yelling, “Wrong, wrong, this is wrong!” His gloved hands got ever closer and he suddenly realized he still had his gun in his hand. He stopped, looked up to Sophie. Her smile disappeared. “Sophie…I…” He looked down to the child looking up at him with a gaze of fear. She began to cry--wail. He stepped back, guilt of distance and failure consuming him, “Sophie…sorry,” he began to lose control, tears heating his face, “I’m so sorry!”

The vision disappeared right at the moment two powerful arms clasped around his throat from behind.