Submitted for the February 2024 prompt: On This Special Day

It happens so fast, I don't even try to catch myself. I'm walking through the woods, my feet in the leaves and my head in the clouds, and then I'm flat on my back at the bottom of a sinkhole. It's no bigger than the closet where I keep my model spaceships, but it's a trap for my six-year-old self. Six to the day, in fact. My cake still sits heavy in my belly.

 

For the first minute, I think only of my ankle, which twisted as I landed and hurts enough to dominate my attention.

 

The initial pain, however, is quickly overshadowed by crushing fear as the reality of my situation sinks in. The fire in my ankle flares as I rise unsteadily to my feet and stretch my arms toward the sunlit crevice above. It’s tantalizingly close, yet too far away.

 

I try to jump, but the lip is beyond my reach, and each attempt ends in agony. I probe the steep walls that surround me, seeking handholds in the soil and stone, but find none.

 

As more time passes, my efforts become increasingly desperate. I scratch and claw in utter futility, like a snared animal, frightened senseless.

 

I scream, too… I think. Although I can’t hear it. Which is bizarre.

 

The only sounds I perceive are my own ragged breaths and the pounding of my heart in my ears. Otherwise, the silence is perfect.

 

As the shadows of evening deepen, my energy wanes and I abandon all thoughts of escape. The final, fragile vestiges of my courage follow the sun into oblivion. I curl up into a ball, the cold earth pressed against my back, and dream of my bed and blankets.

 

My father’s voice reaches me from what sounds like an incredible distance, but I fail to respond because I can’t believe it’s real. At first.

 

The shocking sight of his flashlight shining down from above is undeniable. His strong arm descends as if from Heaven.

 

I struggle to my feet, reach for him, and shout. This time I can hear it.

 

"Dad! Dad! Daaaad!"

 

Something is still off, though. It’s the word I’m shouting, but the timing doesn’t match up. The voice isn’t quite my own. But it's… familiar.

 

* * *

 

In an act of sheer will, I force my eyes open. The memory snaps back into the recesses of my mind, and I’m confronted with the precarious present moment.

 

The face I find staring back at me — through the clear curve of a spacesuit face shield — does not belong to my father.

 

"I've got you, Dad!" my son says as he takes ahold of my arm.

 

At twenty-six years old, Danny is the youngest person ever chosen for a space mission. The psych guys were worried about introducing a family dynamic into this pressure cooker, but the PR team knew the public would eat it up, and the program needed a polling boost.

 

At first, I can't even respond. I blink away tears as I watch Danny clip a tether line onto my hip loop. It's a twin to the clip already in place there, but the line attached to that one dangles free near my leg — all three feet of it. Its terminus looks like it was cut with a razor. The jagged edge of the damaged antennae array I was working on must have been sharp as hell.

 

I expected it to be a routine EVA, and therein lay the problem. I can see that in retrospect. Working in the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space is never routine. One moment everything was going according to plan, and the next I was adrift.

 

And then I was six years old again, stuck in that hole in the woods. I would never have believed it was possible to relive a memory in such vivid detail. Even as Danny checks my suit for damage, I feel a faint, lingering ache in my ankle. Crazy.

 

"Everything seems fine, Dad," Danny says, maneuvering around to face me again. "You okay?"

 

I ignore the question and say, "Thank you."

 

"You're welcome," he answers through a grin. "I mean, I couldn't lose you on today of all days. Mom would kill me. Best birthday ever, right?"

 

"I think… second-best."