Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

I hate being startled. I prefer controlled forms of fear. I like my podcasts, horror movies, and ghost stories that I can pause and rewind. I handle fear sort of like a warhorse. I could charge bravely into a planned battle, take in the sights of bombs and corpses, but I would still be spooked by an unanticipated barn rat.

The host describes Ted as attractive. That is often the narrative pushed about him. I have learned, however, that it is not true. I’ve heard that his victims often thought that he was creepy-looking. They helped him anyways, because of the broken arm schtick, and because women are trained to be polite to men even when men are ugly and make them feel uncomfortable.

I find it rarely serves me to clarify my memories. It just stirs up needless horrors. I would rather forge on, leaving every stone unturned.

There are parts of me I wish I could train out that I can’t. You can train a dog not to bite, sit on the furniture, or piss in the house, but you can’t train them to become birds. I don’t like a lot of unalterable things about myself. Even when I’m not viewing footage of me on YouTube, I always feel sort of tortured as my own spectator. I want to boo, cringe, and splat rotten fruit at my own head until someone closes the curtains. I want to heckle that I wish I were someone different. I hate my voice. I hate the words I choose. I hate my instincts and the way I think. I hate that I am self-absorbed enough to hate myself in detail. I think I am a bad person. I feel self-loathing so deeply I think if I cracked myself open, I would see the physical manifestation of it calcified in my bones like a geode.

“How is your mom?” I ask. “My mom? Oh, she’s okay,” he says. “I have to check on her, you know. Like you do with your mom. Lately she’s been fine, but not great. She’s taking her medicine. I had to devote a solid four hours of my life to begging her to, but she promised she’s back on them. I’m sure it’ll be an issue again in a few months, but for now, she’s stable. But I think we’ll have to have this fight forever, until she dies.” Our eyes connect. The reality of having mothers like ours is that the only possible reprieve from worrying about finding them dead is them dying. As long as they are alive, the threat that they might die persists. Of course, anyone’s mother can die, but this is different. In this case, they might not have if we had just argued with them to take their medicine, or if we ran into their house faster and got inside in time. “How is your mom?” he asks. I look at him. “She isn’t wearing lipstick.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

“You know.” She leans back in her chair. “One thing I always tell my patients is that everyone can say it could have been worse. Don’t diminish the parts of your childhood that were difficult because they were comparatively better than others.”