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Journal Entry: Sol 6
I’m alone. Fuck. I am so alone.
I was told space was lonely. But now I’m the sole inhabitant of a fucking planet. I guess I should be glad. I mean at least I’m not dead. Yet. When I imagined my body becoming dust and returning to the stars, this is not what I had in mind.
I’m trying to put on a brave face here. Figure shit out. Keep one step ahead of the problem and so on. NASA trained us for catastrophes, yet no one expected anyone to leave a damn astronaut on this red ball up in space. I probably can’t blame them. And I’m sure the Ares 3 crew thought I was dead. I woke up with my system going haywire. They probably lost my signal around the time that fucking satellite dish took me out. And that lost all my connection to the little blue planet I usually call home 225 million kilometers from here.
Which leads me back to my initial point: I am very fucking alone.
I’ve already attempted to write down a log entry. You know, for NASA. When someone eventually discovers that I was alive after what happened today. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. I just stared at the computer keyboard. I mean, any normal human being would be panicking and crumbling under the weight of everything going on today. And just because I’ve trained half my life for instances like this didn’t really prepare me for that moment. The fact I need to record what happened afterwards but before I really die. So this is me taking a step back. This is my journal, and that’s my log. I guess I can set up something to dump this data if I don’t access it after a certain period of time. So NASA… When they find me… Will find that and not this.
This being me panicking and having a potentially disastrous mental and emotional breakdown. But cut me some slack. I’m the first man to ever be on a planet completely alone. That has to have some credit for my man-tears.
But like one of the characters from one of my favorite tv shows in high school said:
“What do we say to the God of Death?”
“Not today.”
Journal Entry: Sol 7
I’m exhausted. But there’s a chance I can get to the Ares 4 site when they arrive four years from now. Four years. Stiff upper lip, Watney ol’ boy.
Journal Entry: Sol 8
It’s too quiet here. I had gotten used to talking to my crew over the comms. You sure as hell can’t hear anything in space, but trust me, our team rarely has a dull moment when we’re all connected through the comm system. Lewis has even threatened to shut mine off before. God, I’d give anything for that to be the reason I can’t fucking talk to anyone. I could just bug them when I got back to the HAB after our EVAs.
I’ve only been here on my own for two days. How the hell am I supposed to make it in this silence for four years?
Journal Entry: Sol 10
I’ve been thinking about my food dilemma. I have enough rations, sure, but I’m going to likely need more. I’m a big boy! I don’t want to be skin and bone by the time Ares 4 gets here.
Quite a few people have questions about where all the funds NASA has is going towards. I once saw a youtube video about washing your hair in 0-G and this one idiot was upset about the astronaut using towels. Fucking towels. Don’t you know anything?
Don’t you know a towel is the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have?
Anyway. One of the research programs a lot of people don’t seem to get is our botany program. So they look at me funny when I say something like “yeah I’m a botanist and an astronaut.” They can understand the engineer part. Shit needs maintained. But plants? In space? They don’t get it. But hey, whatever. Because maybe my particular skillset will save my sorry space ass. If only I didn’t just have grass and fern seeds. Maybe I can make a tea. Grass tea. Fern tea.
Maybe I’ll come up with Mars’ first hallucinogenic.
Journal Entry: Sol 14
Suck it, condescending youtube assholes!
I found peas, beans, and potatoes. My botany skills will produce more food. Try doing that from the dark room in your mom’s basement.
This is one of the best things to have discovered. I forgot we were going to celebrate Thanksgiving while here. Otherwise I doubt I’d have these potatoes.
Shit. Thanksgiving. By now my parents have probably heard I’m dead. It’s been over a week. Eight days. So now their son is dead just before the holidays. Poor mom. If I could tell anyone I was alive… Okay. Wait. I’d tell Hermes first. On the off-chance they can make a U-turn. But I’d tell my parents before I even bothered to talk to anyone at NASA. Sure, they’d have to relay my message, but that’s not the point. I want my mom to know I’m okay. And my old man, as tough as he seems, I know he’s probably just trying to be that strong anchor for my mom… I wish I could tell them. And if I don’t make it back I wish they could just know that I’m doing what I love.
Yeah, I don’t really love getting gutted by a flying saucer. Uh, satellite. Or getting marooned on a barren planet. But they’ve always known how much I wanted this. I’ve wanted to travel to space since before I can really remember. It was always either an astronaut or a DJ. And I’m pretty sure my parents appreciated the educational programs in this one more. Even if my job entailed strapping myself to a rocket and blasting off through the atmosphere. My parents always supported me though. No matter how bizarre my dream. When I got accepted to the astronaut program they were proud. But when I told them I was going to Mars with Ares 3, I’m pretty damn sure my mom could have burst my eardrums with how loud her excited squeal was. It had been louder than even mine.
Mom, Dad… I love you guys.