Winter on Venus
Winter on Venus
Winter on Venus
Venus does not experience true seasons. Why, you ask? The planetary axial tilt of Earth is 23.4°. In comparison, Venus leans at a mere 2.7°. That pathetic excuse for a tilt is far too insignificant to render any noticeable change in temperature or solar exposure possible throughout different regions of the planet. And that’s not even taking into consideration the atmosphere, thick as tar, and hell-bent on trapping all the heat the planet consumes and displacing it across every inch of its surface.
Needless to say, Winter on Venus is no different from Summer or Spring on Venus. It is, for all intents and purposes, its natural state. Hot. Deadly. And inescapable.
“Go on, say it, Frank.”
“I-” I fumbled with my wallet, searching for an excuse. She sat there, silently washing the dishes. The only sound was the running of the sink and rhythmic clinking of a dish every few seconds. Methodical. Precise. And perfectly detached.
“You know, they say money doesn’t buy happiness. I think they’re full of shit.” She paused, as if waiting for a response, with her hand flung back nonchalantly. “Because every time you come home and there’s not a paycheck in your hand, I’ve noticed things tend to get pretty unhappy around here.” She dried a plate, set it on the counter, and shut off the sink. She looked me in the eyes.
“Say it, Frank,” she demanded again.
“I lost the job.”
She stared straight at me. I couldn’t stand to look into her eyes as I said it, so I watched the snow fall outside. The house was cold, but the kitchen was not.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she said.
You don’t have to say anything, I thought.
She stared again, and I felt something break in me. I sat down at the table and covered my mouth in the leathery folds of my hands. An ominous feeling that I was going to lose a lot of things soon came over me and I could feel it in my chest like dead weight. Hot. Heavy. Crushing.
She bit back tears as she threw a rag at the counter and burst out of the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices. A newspaper rested on the table next to my elbows. With no sound to drown it out, I became intensely aware of the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. Quiet, but deafening in its chatter.
I perused the classifieds - a familiar ritual. I even saw some offers I’d already taken up and lost.
Is it even worth the effort? I wondered. Perhaps, she was already gone. It was pointless if she was. No sense working without her to work for.
I’d rather die, I concluded.
I craned my neck reluctantly to look down the hallway, still shrinking back. She made me small and fearful like this. She made me weak.
What a pathetic excuse for a man you are, she’d probably say. I shook my head. She doesn’t say that. She’d never say that.
I found an offer at the marketplace about a town away. It was a drive, but anything would have to work for now.
My wife locked herself in the room for the next few days. I slept on the couch every night. Cold bit at my skin and bones and left me rigid in the mornings. Curled up in the tiny frame of the couch, I became quite familiar with the assumption of a fetal position. It began to seem to me that my very manhood itself was on the line. A man without pride is no man at all.
If she leaves me now, I’d most certainly be better off dead, I thought.
Eventually, I landed the job. My wife still did not speak with me. She would leave before I went to work in the morning, then come back well before I returned, and lock herself in the room again.
The snow began to get thicker with each passing day. It fell in wild, swirling droves, until it had become a nearly persistent storm of white. The drive to work was treacherous, but I made the venture every morning regardless. I hoped that maybe she’d see. I prayed that she’d see, and give me another chance.
More days passed until the first paycheck. It was a day of calm. The snow settled into a light daze. Town was quiet. The bank was quiet. The world was quiet. I cashed in the check and pressed the bills between my fingertips, as if they would turn to dust if I pressed too hard. I remembered what she said to me.
They say money doesn’t buy happiness…
I tucked the money away as deep into my pocket as it would go and began the drive home. The sun had fallen low when I arrived, carrying groceries in my arms. I parked in the driveway behind the house and passed by our bedroom window. The lights were on and the blinds were drawn. I stopped as I saw the silhouette of my wife’s naked figure pass by the window. I assumed she was changing and made for the front door.
Crunching through the snow, I wondered what I would say. How I would approach her.
She’ll accept me. She has to accept me. She has to.
The door was locked when I walked up. I took the key out from under the mat and opened the door. A breeze passed and pulled the door outward as I opened it.
Just as I had left it, the house was silent.
I almost called to her out of instinct, with bundles of groceries in my arms. That was the way things used to be. I bit my tongue and stayed quiet though. As it was now, I was little but a stranger in the home. I felt my heart racing at the thought of apologizing, asking for another chance, of holding her again, of finally sleeping on my own bed instead of the couch.
I set the groceries down and took a breath. The house was cold, but the kitchen was not.
I put my words together and breathed into my hands to warm them. When I was finally ready, I stepped into the hallway.
There were voices.
“Baby, are you sure you wanna do this? What if he finds out?” The voice of a man...
“Of course I do. I’ve been wanting this for so long. Let’s not talk about him, okay,” she replies.
“You know you shouldn’t underestimate a man with nothing left to lose. You said it yourself, the guy’s a wreck.”
“My husband? He couldn’t hurt a fly if he wanted to. He’s pathetic.”
I froze. My shadow stretched to fill the hallway, almost slipping under the doorway to claw through the wood until it came through and filled the room inside. A million thoughts filled my mind like a burning blizzard. Hatred, fury, wrath. In but a single moment, I had snapped.
I went through the kitchen and into the garage, reaching aimlessly for the light switch. There, on a shelf, I grabbed the jug of gasoline and stormed into the house with it.
When I was done with my task, I took the matches from the kitchen and continued a trail of gasoline out of the house and into the front of the yard. I lit a match, and let it fly.
Venus does not experience true seasons. It does not grow cold in Winter. The only precipitation is the constant falls of sulfuric acid rain. And all throughout, the planet maintains an average temperature 460°C. If you were to so much as touch the surface of Venus, you would be cooked alive. They say that once upon a time, Venus had continents and water. They say it was beautiful. But as it stands now, Venus has none of those things. In this moment, standing in front of my life and my death, in front of the atrocities I have created and endured, I begin to understand that there is no hope for Venus. No great rain will come to smother her flames. No man can keep her from death. No, there is no Winter for Venus. It’s too late now; her keeper has departed. She must endure on her own.
She must burn.
Venus does not experience true seasons. Why, you ask? The planetary axial tilt of Earth is 23.4°. In comparison, Venus leans at a mere 2.7°. That pathetic excuse for a tilt is far too insignificant to render any noticeable change in temperature or solar exposure possible throughout different regions of the planet. And that’s not even taking into consideration the atmosphere, thick as tar, and hell-bent on trapping all the heat the planet consumes and displacing it across every inch of its surface.
Needless to say, Winter on Venus is no different from Summer or Spring on Venus. It is, for all intents and purposes, its natural state. Hot. Deadly. And inescapable.
“Go on, say it, Frank.”
“I-” I fumbled with my wallet, searching for an excuse. She sat there, silently washing the dishes. The only sound was the running of the sink and rhythmic clinking of a dish every few seconds. Methodical. Precise. And perfectly detached.
“You know, they say money doesn’t buy happiness. I think they’re full of shit.” She paused, as if waiting for a response, with her hand flung back nonchalantly. “Because every time you come home and there’s not a paycheck in your hand, I’ve noticed things tend to get pretty unhappy around here.” She dried a plate, set it on the counter, and shut off the sink. She looked me in the eyes.
“Say it, Frank,” she demanded again.
“I lost the job.”
She stared straight at me. I couldn’t stand to look into her eyes as I said it, so I watched the snow fall outside. The house was cold, but the kitchen was not.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she said.
You don’t have to say anything, I thought.
She stared again, and I felt something break in me. I sat down at the table and covered my mouth in the leathery folds of my hands. An ominous feeling that I was going to lose a lot of things soon came over me and I could feel it in my chest like dead weight. Hot. Heavy. Crushing.
She bit back tears as she threw a rag at the counter and burst out of the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices. A newspaper rested on the table next to my elbows. With no sound to drown it out, I became intensely aware of the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. Quiet, but deafening in its chatter.
I perused the classifieds - a familiar ritual. I even saw some offers I’d already taken up and lost.
Is it even worth the effort? I wondered. Perhaps, she was already gone. It was pointless if she was. No sense working without her to work for.
I’d rather die, I concluded.
I craned my neck reluctantly to look down the hallway, still shrinking back. She made me small and fearful like this. She made me weak.
What a pathetic excuse for a man you are, she’d probably say. I shook my head. She doesn’t say that. She’d never say that.
I found an offer at the marketplace about a town away. It was a drive, but anything would have to work for now.
My wife locked herself in the room for the next few days. I slept on the couch every night. Cold bit at my skin and bones and left me rigid in the mornings. Curled up in the tiny frame of the couch, I became quite familiar with the assumption of a fetal position. It began to seem to me that my very manhood itself was on the line. A man without pride is no man at all.
If she leaves me now, I’d most certainly be better off dead, I thought.
Eventually, I landed the job. My wife still did not speak with me. She would leave before I went to work in the morning, then come back well before I returned, and lock herself in the room again.
The snow began to get thicker with each passing day. It fell in wild, swirling droves, until it had become a nearly persistent storm of white. The drive to work was treacherous, but I made the venture every morning regardless. I hoped that maybe she’d see. I prayed that she’d see, and give me another chance.
More days passed until the first paycheck. It was a day of calm. The snow settled into a light daze. Town was quiet. The bank was quiet. The world was quiet. I cashed in the check and pressed the bills between my fingertips, as if they would turn to dust if I pressed too hard. I remembered what she said to me.
They say money doesn’t buy happiness…
I tucked the money away as deep into my pocket as it would go and began the drive home. The sun had fallen low when I arrived, carrying groceries in my arms. I parked in the driveway behind the house and passed by our bedroom window. The lights were on and the blinds were drawn. I stopped as I saw the silhouette of my wife’s naked figure pass by the window. I assumed she was changing and made for the front door.
Crunching through the snow, I wondered what I would say. How I would approach her.
She’ll accept me. She has to accept me. She has to.
The door was locked when I walked up. I took the key out from under the mat and opened the door. A breeze passed and pulled the door outward as I opened it.
Just as I had left it, the house was silent.
I almost called to her out of instinct, with bundles of groceries in my arms. That was the way things used to be. I bit my tongue and stayed quiet though. As it was now, I was little but a stranger in the home. I felt my heart racing at the thought of apologizing, asking for another chance, of holding her again, of finally sleeping on my own bed instead of the couch.
I set the groceries down and took a breath. The house was cold, but the kitchen was not.
I put my words together and breathed into my hands to warm them. When I was finally ready, I stepped into the hallway.
There were voices.
“Baby, are you sure you wanna do this? What if he finds out?” The voice of a man...
“Of course I do. I’ve been wanting this for so long. Let’s not talk about him, okay,” she replies.
“You know you shouldn’t underestimate a man with nothing left to lose. You said it yourself, the guy’s a wreck.”
“My husband? He couldn’t hurt a fly if he wanted to. He’s pathetic.”
I froze. My shadow stretched to fill the hallway, almost slipping under the doorway to claw through the wood until it came through and filled the room inside. A million thoughts filled my mind like a burning blizzard. Hatred, fury, wrath. In but a single moment, I had snapped.
I went through the kitchen and into the garage, reaching aimlessly for the light switch. There, on a shelf, I grabbed the jug of gasoline and stormed into the house with it.
When I was done with my task, I took the matches from the kitchen and continued a trail of gasoline out of the house and into the front of the yard. I lit a match, and let it fly.
Venus does not experience true seasons. It does not grow cold in Winter. The only precipitation is the constant falls of sulfuric acid rain. And all throughout, the planet maintains an average temperature 460°C. If you were to so much as touch the surface of Venus, you would be cooked alive. They say that once upon a time, Venus had continents and water. They say it was beautiful. But as it stands now, Venus has none of those things. In this moment, standing in front of my life and my death, in front of the atrocities I have created and endured, I begin to understand that there is no hope for Venus. No great rain will come to smother her flames. No man can keep her from death. No, there is no Winter for Venus. It’s too late now; her keeper has departed. She must endure on her own.
She must burn.