139 Years to the End of the World

Life Goes On, Part One

If I had to describe the sensation of being cryogenically frozen, I'd say it was like blinking really hard. Like blinking, it happens so fast that you don't consciously sense you're doing it until your eyes had already reopened. The only difference between blinking and getting frozen, aside from the obvious, is that the world around you changes, months and years at a time. That's not exactly a good description, I know. But that's about as close as I can get to the actual experience in brain text. You blink hard, and the world changes.

Once more, I found myself in the dark containment of the Cryo-Tube, with only the hum of the machine to soothe my confused soul. Here's the thing with being unable to feel pain, or any physical contact for that matter. If you close your eyes, you don't know if you're standing or sitting. My eyesight and muscle memories made up my abilities to move about and not hurt myself unintentionally. Not to mention I had a few days to train on living blind before my prosthetic eyes were put in.

The darkness was disorienting and I moved my hand as far right as I thought possible before gently knocking at the steel container. The resulting sound was music to my ears and proved I was still in the confinement of the tube. Echolocation is the ability to discern our physical surrounding and location of objects by sound alone. Though it sounds like a superhuman ability, it's something everyone can do to some level. It's why our brain can decipher if a sound is behind us or in front of us.

A red light flashed on beside me, illuminating the place. Looking down, I was once again slumped against the wall, my dressing soaking wet with the freezing liquid. I balled my hands in a fist and banged slightly harder against the wall, the echoes lasting longer in my ears than I thought it would.

I removed the oxygen mask and yelled, "Hey!" I waited a second for a reply. But when none came, I continued shouting. "What's going on out there?"

A beep resounded from seemingly every corner of the tube and a voice came through that I recognized and somewhat loathed to hear. "Milton? We're experiencing some problems with the hatch. Just wait awhile while we try to crank it open manually."

"Doctor Parker," I replied sardonically, unsure if he could hear me or if there was even a microphone in the chamber. "How many years has it been?"

I waited and the seconds seemed to pass in a matter of days. Concluding that there might not have been a microphone after all, I admittedly felt quite silly for basically talking to myself.

Then, "Three years Mr. Jones," the doctor sounded slightly despaired in his reply. "It's been three years."

"Ten years total..." I mumbled to myself before returning my attention to the doctor. "Weren't you supposed to be gone by now?"

Another long silence from Parker's end. With really nothing to do until the hatch opened back up, I could only wait for a reply. When it finally came, I was somewhat stunned by the soft and humbled tone in which he spoke with, "I know we got off on the wrong foot Mr. Jones, but three years has been a long time. I'm not proud of what I was and I've changed quite a bit since then."

"Really?" I replied, wondering if I might have been too harsh with my words before.

"Yes. Really. I've applied to, and have been assigned as your permanent physician. And I know this is over a thousand days late, but I just want to say I'm sorry for how I treated you three years ago," he apparently awaited my response after that. But I was still unsure how I should act and continued staring at the grated floor. He continued, "You don't have to reply immediately. I just wanted you to know."

I mumbled, "Right," unsure if he even heard me.

"Anyway," the doctor continued. "Could you stretch your body around? Move your joints a little, and check if there's anything wrong? Any weakness or dislocation? The liquid should have kept your muscles from entropy, though your arms might feel slightly weak for the first few minutes."