Earth air be damn expensive.
I’d rather die by airlock than breathe O2 crack. Fuckers be earning with that black market shit. Earth air, my ass. More like diluted oxygen. If this be Earth, you’d be strapping those air tanks to rats to watch them die.
See how those under-bunker gophers gasp when they walk? They be coughing up blood like they got disease.
I’m a top-bunkie, with a sweet view of Jupiter. The O2 ain’t Earth quality, but it’s close.
Still, I earn peanuts for cred. Yeah, I be stuck on base until dead.
Fuck, my lungs be tight.
This story previously appeared in Hungry Shadow Press.
Edited by Marie Ginga
Melissa Ren is a Chinese-Canadian writer whose narratives tend to explore the intersection between belonging and becoming. She is a prize recipient of Room Magazine's Fiction Contest, and an editor at Tales & Feathers. Find her publications at Melissa Ren or follow @melisfluous on Twitter & Instagram.