I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t terrified of space. That black curtain of nothingness, the cold and merciless void. It surrounds the life that we have created here, a foreboding warning to all those who dream of something more than this earth. There is nothing out there but death. Nothing by empty space.
The most memorable dream I ever had, and also the most terrifying, was the beginning spark to my unwavering fear of space. It seemed to be a normal dream at the time. In the dream, my family and I were flying to the moon in a space ship. My siblings and I were all young at the time, my youngest brother Matthew hardly a toddler.
We arrived at the moon, and everyone was excited to get out and see the gray dust and black sky. It was an adventure. The doors flung open and we stepped outside, jumping so high we thought we might float away. But the moment we turned and saw little Matthew stumble out the door like the clumsy little boy that he was, we shouted in alarm.
That instant, Matthew turned his helmetless face up in shock, and without another warning, his head exploded. His eyes popped out of their sockets, his skin bloated and bulged into lumps, and then he blew up, bits of his flesh flinging about and sticking to the glass of our helmets. I screamed.
I woke crying, still unaware that I’d been caught in a dream. I flung myself from my bed, stumbled outside my bedroom, and collapsed against the wall beneath the intercom. The house was silent, and it took several minutes of sobbing to convince myself that it wasn’t real, that it was fine, he was fine, I was fine.
Needless to say, I couldn’t sleep alone comfortably for weeks, and I have never forgotten that dream.