It was mercy; mercy, finally, that we ended the suffering that left Grape voiceless and such a burden, looking at me like he didn’t get a joke someone told him as Wallter poked the knife into his back and I held him by the shoulders, air wheezing out of poor Grape’s mouth like a leaking balloon. We collected his things, put it all with him in his sleep sack, smelling of the decay he had cultured over the past few weeks, we zipped it all up, lay it in the airlock, and Wallter evacuated our former crew member before I could finish a bland, improvised statement that tried to make Georjes “Grape” Jackson seem like he was more to us than he was.
Now, us two. O2-processor at 97%, functioning within parameters. Engines still locked, some broken needle in a haystack of circuitry that we cannot find. Comms panel is still suspiciously defunct. We have given up attempts to find ourselves on charts.
I have started to ration, Wallter has not. He has driven his yellowed teeth through an entire box - all 36 bars - of berry-flavored Toolie Bars in four days. I swear I can taste berry-flavored Toolie Bars in our recycled water.
He refuses to speak of Grape, or how he may have gotten so sick.
And his chewing. The chewing noise he makes. I cannot escape it.