Interstellar → Chris Beck

S O L 3 6

So. . .I've finally done it—I've finally began writing this dumbass eulogy for my brother. Allow me to point out, though, that this is among one of the most painful papers I've ever been forced to write in my life. My essays in school were nowhere near as painful as this, and they were pretty damn painful, so please bear with me.

As you all know, I am Maia Watney, fellow astronaut and younger sister to the lovable idiot we all knew as Mark Watney. Let me be the first to say that Mark was an outstanding person and one of the greatest people I've ever known in my thirty years of life. He lived his life to the absolute fullest and has touched a numerous amount of lives during his time on Earth, his time in space, and his time on Mars.

Words can't even begin to describe how much losing him has hurt me and how much it continues to hurt me—they may never be able to. The only thing I really have to say in regards to how I feel is that I feel lost; I lost a piece of myself when I lost Mark, and as I write this it becomes nearly impossible for me to find the words to express my thoughts about my brother. I'm willing to try, though. . .for him.

First and foremost, Mark was a devout family man. He loved his family more than anything in the world and would gladly put his own needs aside to tend to ours. He was a devoted son and a devoted brother. Those who knew him knew there was nothing in the world that could ever break the bond he shared with his family—absolutely nothing.

Growing up, Mark and I would constantly be at each other's throats. I can remember him locking me in his closet for about an hour when I was thirteen because I fed his leftovers from Gino's to our dog, and, when I was eleven, he threw me out of our living room window because I got angry and threw his Xbox against our living room wall, thus rendering the console useless. At the end of the day, though, Mark was always the one who was there for me; he was always the one that I could count on no matter what the situation presented itself to be. I was his family, and his devotion to his family was the foundation of his actions.

Mark was also a wonderful friend to those around him. He was one person everyone knew they could depend on. If you needed advice, he would be there; if you needed someone to comfort you, he would be there; if you needed a good laugh, he would be there; if you needed a shoulder to cry on, he would be there; if you needed someone to bring you food in the middle of the night, he would definitely be there. He was the definition of a perfect friend, and, in my opinion, was the definition of a perfect person.

As most people know, I'm sure, is that Mark could easily be defined by his personality alone. He had a personality unlike anyone I've ever known, and, unfortunately, I managed to inherit a fragmentary aspect of that personality (I'm only joking. . .partially). Anyway, Mark was very outgoing and a very humorous person. To those of you who don't know, one of the main reasons Mark was chosen for the Ares 3 mission was specifically because he was an asset to our group's chemistry (he was also a kickass botanist, by the way). He would cure a bad day among the crew by cracking jokes; the jokes were absolutely terrible, but his effort to brighten our spirits, however, was not. He could make light of any situation—good or bad—and I believe that's why everyone on the crew adored him so much.

Accepting the fact that Mark's gone is still so difficult for me, and it doesn't appear to grow easier as the days pass; it's just so hard to say goodbye when you were never really given the chance to say hello. No one understands the heartbreaking feeling of literally holding onto someone you love for dear life, only for them to be viciously ripped from your grasp seconds later with no hope of return. I'll never forgive myself for letting him go on SOL 18. Had I the strength to hold on to him, maybe then would he still be here with me—with all of us. I'm sorry, I really am.