The Darwin Space Station is still seven hundred and ninety-five days away. It will be complete when we get there, but my shuttle’s sleeping pod sucks. It wasn’t the bed, the steel grate floor, the medicine-scented dry air, or the uncomfortable chill. It was the red wall; candy apple, carnival, garish red wall with a sink and mirror.
I asked to have it repainted.
“Mission critical repairs only,” replied maintenance.
Then I inquired if I could switch pods.
“Sold out,” said the attendant.
I once chipped at it with a butter knife from the food bay, leaving only scratches and exposing stainless steel beneath the paint. I faced away from the wall when sleeping, but I would eventually wake to that offensive red color. The girl from pod 7A said her wall was painted a serene green, reminding her of a forest.
My pod’s red wall mercilessly asserted blood, heat, rage, and flesh. After months of daily exposure, the headaches and blurry vision started. I paced the floor for distraction, my breath shallow and quick. I squeezed my eyes shut. The color seeped into my brain, increased my heart rate, and churned my thoughts.
One night, I swam in dreams of an autumn meadow, draped in slow browns, greens, and yellows while the sky faded to an inky blue. When I woke, the red mocked me. I pounded it with my fist until bruises formed. I scratched at it with my fingernails until they split and bled. I screamed at the wall. “Get out! You foul color! Damn you!” I don’t remember fainting.
Mary watched the video feed from the research department. “Dr. Webber? We have a reaction in 7H.” Dr. Webber peered at the monitor.
“Document that, Mary. Red causes adverse behaviors. Avoid that hue on Darwin Space Station.”