WP - You Are On The Space Station and Earth Implodes

Did it matter what happened? One day it was right there, green and blue, a simple of hope and life, and the next it had winked out of existence. Just like that. Maybe it had raptured away. Who cared? Who really gave a shit? The crew did n't know how to react. The human imperative to survive had first struck, all grim humor. The earth was for suckers. Groundies, they called them. But the human imperative for company had crept in, sliding under the skintight suits they were wearing and filling their hearts with crippling doubt. The engineer was the first to go. Some kid from Korea, he had graduated from MIT at a ridiculously young age. He used to eat the freeze dried kimchi and talk about how the sox were going all the way that year. We found him only minutes after he did it, bouncing off the walls, the bleach bottle still dribbling out its last few drops of life-stealing liquid, clutching his beloved copy of The Fountainhead. What a weird kid. A liberal who loved Rand. Not that political parties matter much anymore. From then on, we had a lot of excess kimchi. Whenever it burned my nose, I thought of him. Jesus. How could anyone like that stuff? 
 
 What really started to get to people was the fact that we were getting further away. We had been in an orbit away from the sun when the Earth went. Lucky for us, I guess. We get a few more days of life. Not that it'll really matter in the end. If we miss the few gravity wells of the other planets, we'll be flung out to the stars eventually. That's why I wanted this job, I guess. I wanted to see the stars. Seems appropriate that they'll be the last thing I do. 
 
 There's three of us left now. The other two, both Russian, did it together. Very national of them. There's honor in that, a clean death. Not starving out, or running out of water. Or starving to death. It's getting cold now. After a brief discussion, we put all three bodies into storage, just in case. The kimchi ran out yesterday. I do n't know what we're trying to delay. It's just us. Three men even. No chance of even love among the stars. Just a slow death, blinking out without anything even caring. 
 
 We've stayed busy as best we can. It's mostly just a waiting game at this point. Water is being recycled as well as it can, but it's just a matter of time. Air should n't be a problem, but it does n't seem like anyone really cares. I know I do n't. It seems ironic that the pinnacle of human achievement, the greatest degree of cooperation should be the last bastion of humanity. Or maybe not. Not that it really matters whether or not I remember the correct definition of irony. Not that language itself really matters now. What a beautiful construction, a system of sounds and characters to communicate ideas to each other, designed to pass along generations of knowledge. It's thanks to language that the last three members of the human race are hurtling at god knows what speed towards the edge of the known universe. If we can survive for long enough, we might be the first people to lose sight of the moon. There was some talk about pulling together a collection of human history, but I do n't think that it'll happen. Who would read it? And who on this station knows it? 
 
 All that's left to do now is wait. What's funny is that I always knew death was coming for me. Every rational human does. But on this station, I realize that I never knew he was. I never understood I was going to die. I was going to live forever until I was n't, and that was how I saw the world. 
 
 There's still a bottle of bleach left, hell, many bottles. Just knowing I still control one facet, the last facet, of my life, gives me a little comfort. I wo n't today. But maybe tomorrow, I'll pour myself a tall glass and stare out at the sun.
