The Martians came on a Tuesday evening, if I remember correctly. Yes, a Tuesday. That day always has a specific feel to it, doesn’t it?

When the pods dropped I was sitting in my kitchen, scraping the last of a congealed mass of macaroni and cheese from a chipped earthenware bowl. They didn’t make much of a sound; the pods, that is. Ironically, it was the sound of my meal slurping around in my gut that I remember most from that night. I guess that’s because it was the last time I would ever eat real food again.

The transport process was not painful, per se. Just jarring; teeth chatteringly, bone shakingly jarring. I’ve never touched the Martian dirt, nor sniffed the Martian atmosphere (there is one, despite what science has told us). As I sit in my cramped cell, with nothing but a gelatinous, glowing blob as my nightlight, I try to remember what Earth was like. It’s nothing but a tiny blue dot in an ocean of blackness, now.

Will I ever feel its pull again? Only time will tell.