Flying through the vast, unending abyss of darkness, I drifted in a space where time itself seemed irrelevant. Only the fleeting brilliance of distant stars and the occasional burst of light from passing celestial bodies marked my journey.
These lights flickered, illuminating the void for mere moments, before they were swallowed by the oppressive blackness again.
As I drifted, a strange awareness began to grow within me—a nascent sense of self, pushing its way into my consciousness like a seed breaking through the surface of the earth.
The craft beneath me hummed steadily, its sleek metallic surface reflecting the brief glimmers of light that passed by. Slowly, it began to decelerate, and through the viewport, a planet materialised—a swirling sphere of green, white, and blue. Earth.
It was the first planet I had ever encountered that seemed to breathe with life rather than just exist.
Space, I thought, was both beautiful and soul-crushing. A cosmic canvas filled with stars, yet somehow I felt smaller, more insignificant—like a lone tree in a vast, empty field.
Like an endless stretch of nothingness, broken only by the fragile promise of something that never even mattered in the first place but nevertheless still proved significant.
But there was no time to ponder such thoughts, as the ship's systems began to register an anomaly.
The craft began to tremble. The harsh rumble beneath me intensified as my ship entered the atmosphere, the once pristine blue sky transforming into a scorching orange haze. I didn't know if it was the ship's design or an unfortunate malfunction, but the heat was invigorating.
For the first time in the singular year of my life, I felt danger—a feeling alien to me, a rare gift considering how sheltered my existence had been.
Back on my home planet, I had been an anomaly—treated as something out of place. My parents had kept me under a watchful eye, fearing what the universe might do to me. They told me stories of the distant stars, of life thriving on other worlds, but this world—this Earth—was something new, something unknown.
"If only they were still here," I murmured to myself, regret gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.
Beep beep beep.
The alarms grew louder, pulling me from my thoughts. This isn't good, I thought, my mind beginning to race as the ship lurched and trembled around me.
The ship groaned, its metallic skin heating up as it struggled to maintain balance. Vibrations ran through the entire hull as it fought against the friction of entry.
I had entered the planet's atmosphere, but my descent was anything but smooth. Red warning lights flashed, and the shrill sound of whirring machinery escalated, filling the craft with a maddening symphony of noise.
The hull held—barely—but the white sheen began to dull into a sickly grey, scorched by the atmosphere. I could only do one thing: surrender. There was nothing more to be done.
I understood that the ship was designed for such stress, yet the sight of its pristine white hull darkening into a charred grey unnerved me. The feeling of helplessness settled in, and I allowed myself a brief, heavy sigh.
The rest of the journey—the landing, the survival, everything—was now beyond my control.
It was no longer up to me.
This... this is it, I thought, feeling my body surrender to the uncontrollable forces of nature.
I closed my mind, resigning myself to the ship's fate. And then, without warning, everything went black.
The craft slammed into the hard earth, and I lost consciousness as the world outside erupted in a fiery explosion, scattering the once-mighty ship into a thousand jagged pieces.
***
"What was that, honey?" A woman's voice broke the quiet hum of the farm.
The man, who had been squinting into the distance, paused. He inhaled deeply, dust swirling around him as he adjusted his worn straw hat. His eyes, weathered and tired, narrowed as he stared at the sky.
The man paused, a long sigh escaping his lips. "That... that was a UFO, I think."
His straw-coloured hair, unruly and wild, clung to his sun-beaten face. His beard was a mess of stubble, barely distinguishable from the dirt caked on his hands and face.
His clothes, a mismatched ensemble of faded overalls and a checkered shirt, were torn at the seams from years of hard labor. His boots, once sturdy, were now worn and leaking, held together by sheer stubbornness.
The woman, in contrast, was more composed, though her attire—like his—was equally worn.
She stood with the hose in her hands, a tired but mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.
The woman, however, was the picture of patience, though her own attire mirrored the farmer's—worn but functional. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she picked up the hose.
"UFO?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Sure, 'cause that's the kind of thing that happens around here."
The man, not reacting to her sarcasm, muttered, "Well, it didn't exactly look like a plane."
She sighed, setting down the hose and rolling her eyes. "Alright, what do we do about jokers like that?" Her question directed at the cat.
The man glanced at the ground and muttered under his breath, "The cat can't understand human language…" Unfortunately for him, his wife heard this.
Without missing a beat, she turned the hose to its highest pressure and, with a playful but deadly aim, blasted a stream of water straight at him.
The man barely managed to duck, but the cold jet of water soaked his back, sending him stumbling for cover.
Her laughter rang out, light and teasing, while the man grumbled, resigned to his fate.
For all his rough exterior, he had a soft spot for her antics, no matter how annoying they could be.
He glanced up from under the brim of his hat, shaking his head, only to see her standing tall and dry, her overalls still spotless.
***
Noise. Unrelenting, chaotic noise.
I woke to the sound of chaos—too much noise, too much light. I felt it—no, sensed
it—surging through the air like a tidal wave, even though I had no ears to hear it.
I could feel the sensation of light pouring through me, even though I had no eyes to see.
I tried to move, but remembered that I had no body to move. Only my thoughts remained, trapped in a form I could barely understand. I was a shapeless blob—nothing more than a purple mass that could easily be mistaken for some inanimate object, if not for the strange, squishy texture.
There were no physical senses. No sight, no sound, no feeling. It was as if I existed outside the physical realm, in a place where reality blurred and merged with imagination allowing me to perceive things separate from the common course of existence.
It felt like being present at a concert, only to step outside and realise the music had stopped, the crowd gone.
I tried to focus, to make sense of my situation, but my thoughts were fragmented. Was this what it felt like to be schizophrenic? To lose control over reality, to be locked in an endless struggle with perception?
I couldn't be sure. The uncertainty gnawed at me.
And then I felt bad for schizophrenics.
Suddenly, a presence—small, approaching. It was unlike anything I had encountered before.
Not human, but something else. Graceful, light... a creature, perhaps.
Meow.
A soft, almost insignificant sound—yet to me, it was terrifying. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it suggested: that the creature was aware of my presence. That it might be a threat.
Then, something unexpected happened. The cat, curious and unaware of my state, stepped directly onto my form. I felt a sharp pressure, but there was no pain. My consciousness, now more attuned to the world, surged into hyperawareness. In an instant, I was elsewhere.
***
The world I found myself in was blue—pale, cold blue—like the sterile light of a hospital room. There was no ground, no walls, no space that I could touch. It was an endless, weightless void, yet I could stand within it.
I was no longer formless, no longer a mere blob. I was—something else. I stood, towering over the small creature, my true form. It was monstrous, grotesque—four faces, seventeen eyes, blotchy and dark. Yet I felt a strange pride in it.
My species was a protector by nature, though perhaps I had never fully understood that purpose.
But even as I revelled in my newfound awareness, I felt weakness. A sense of frailty and emptiness. Perhaps it was the shell I had been forced into, or perhaps something deeper.
Regardless, I had no time to dwell on it, as I gazed down at the cat before me—a small, unassuming thing.
It hissed at me, instinctively wary. I could almost pity it.
But I didn't. Not really. My species didn't feel pity—not in the way humans did. Emotions were considered weaknesses, though I had always disagreed. To feel was to exist.
Emotions, for better or worse, were the core of life.
The cat's eyes widened, and it hissed again, more forcefully this time.
Much better, I thought.
Suddenly, the surroundings shifted. I was no longer standing. I was drawn into the cat. Its memories flooded my mind—cold, hunger, the stinging sensation of being abandoned. I felt its pain, its despair, its anger.
The cat was alone. Forgotten.
But in that moment, I wasn't just an observer. I became the cat.
I saw through its eyes: three boys, young, their uniforms crisp and spotless, walking past.
I wanted to speak, to ask for aide, but all that came from my new form was a weak, pitiful meow. A helpless sound that echoed in my mind, far too weak to be anything of consequence.
But to my surprise, the boys noticed. One of them smirked, the other two following his gaze.
"Look at that cat," the boy sneered.
His companions smirked, their gazes full of disdain.
Unaware of their intentions, I felt something unexpected: hope. Maybe they would help. Maybe—
But then I saw their smiles. The curve of their lips was too wide, too malicious.
My spine chilled.
In that moment, I realised: no one was coming. Not for me. Not for the cat.
They didn't see the cat as a creature of pain—they saw it as an opportunity for mockery.
I shivered, and the cold returned.
But this time, it wasn't just the cat's cold I felt. It was my own.