Thrum

by Meg Smitherman

All around me the white walls close in. The sharp smell of antiseptic and recycled air threatens to choke me. I’d rather I could smell them. I’d rather their rotten flesh gag me in its decomposition than feel separate from them, as if they might still be alive somehow, trapped in stasis for eternity.

But the fact is that the biological makeup of a human brain is too simple, its neurons too few, to understand the true enormity of our universe. It is incalculably and emphatically beyond us.

I remember some of his last words to me, his sad smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, MiMi.” But Henry would be an old man now, thanks to special relativistic time dilation. And by the time I return to Earth, if I’m granted that grace, my brother will be long dead.

Finally, I bury my wet face in the crook of my elbow, hoping to cut off my access to oxygen. The paper bag method, but for girls adrift in deep space.

I’m challenging the firmament in its horrible power, and it is gazing right back at me, unimpressed.

It appears to have been snapped off by space debris. I squint. “No, look at the ridges. Someone, something — it’s been sawed off.”

What we understand of the universe is so small, so pathetically minor, that it’s almost laughable.

our only frame of reference for “life” is what’s on Earth.

Our knowledge is so minute, a tiny droplet in a vast sea that never ends, and we had the audacity to think we knew what we were getting into.

“Is he speaking English?” Affirmative. “I am,” says the voice. “I got your welcome package. I learned it. I understand the primary language of your crew is English.”

“Who…” I begin, then clear my throat, which has gone bone-dry. “Who are you?” There’s a beat of silence, cut through only by the crackle of the open channel. “My name is Dorian Gray.” What the hell? “That’s an Earth name,” I manage. “I picked it from one of the books in your welcome package.” “Oh. Of course.” As if it’s normal, a standard thing. Of course he did. Of course he dug through the entire library of Earth’s works and landed on Oscar Wilde.

“Of course,” he responds, unhesitating. “I’d love to let you study me.

Dorian Gray is beautiful.

“You need to rest.” He studies me, his black eyes shining, snake-like. “Alone.”

“Ami,” he says, my name supplicant on his lips. “I would never hurt you.”

My mind can’t contain this. Contain him. I blink, hard.

I’m fascinated, despite myself. “Do you age while you sleep?” He darts a playful look over his shoulder. “Are you asking how old I am?”

He’s watching me with an almost overwhelming intensity, his unblinking black eyes framed by unnaturally long lashes, head tilted down slightly, as if he’s starving and I’m a meal.

This is basic stuff. Stoner Thoughts 101. I’ve heard it all before in my early twenties, passing a joint with friends, staring up at the sky, and wondering what it all meant.

He narrows his eyes and I almost suspect he’s trying not to smile. “You’re being stubborn.”

His face softens. “I won’t hurt you, Ami. I told you that, too.”

His hand snakes up my back, feather-soft, hesitant, but flame-hot.

“Would you mind talking to me, while I work? I’d like to learn more about you. Not in an invasive way. I just… want to get to know you.” He smiles, his eyes glinting with understanding. “You want to study me.” “Get to know you.” He tilts his head, and I suddenly feel that I’m the one being studied, plastered to a petri dish and held up to a microscope. “We can do, or talk about, whatever you’d like, Ami.”

This is unlike any room I’ve ever seen. It’s an ancient Victorian ballroom, and outside its tall windows, stars and nebulae wheel past. There is something wrong with the chandelier; it’s tinged with red and appears to be suspended in midair. The floor feels uneven though it appears to be marble. At the center of the room sits a stately table set for two, and laden with food. Fruits and vegetables, loaves of bread, steaming tureens, and delicate iced cakes festoon the surface. It’s a king’s feast. I couldn’t begin to make a dent in it.

“You miss Earth,” he says and moves toward me. “I can make other rooms for you, Ami. Other places. Show you things you’ve never seen before.”

“Show me your true form.” I’ve had a little too much wine, so much that I’m conveniently not thinking about the fact that it’s not real wine at all. I’m not thinking about how warm my face is, how Dorian’s every glance is like a physical touch against shivering skin. “I’d rather not.” “Please?” “You wouldn’t like it.” “You don’t know that.” “You hardly seem to like this form.” “That’s not true. It’s just… too beautiful.

“I read your welcome package,” he says slowly, and his tone is tinged with unspent laughter. “I know what a type is.” “Oh?”

“Ami,” he groans. “I’ve waited so long for you.”

No matter how many times you try to go, you always come back.