Scribble 8 : Which kind of Human are you?

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I'm on a writer's block.

I'm writing several stories simultaneously but everything get stuck in intro and I can't get anything done: typical me of the mess.

Okay, now let's get going. This is not so much a full blown story as it is an experimental gunk of mess.... But it's readable, I ensure you. Our current theme is Science Fiction, and our current rate was Teen 13+. The experimental part is I tried to write in third person, which if you had noticed, I never did, in this blog at least.

So, without further ado, Let the Scribble begin!

Scribble 8 : Which kind of Human are you?

The century is 276 A.D., the year is 36th.

Humanity had finally left the confines of their home system and spread throughout the Galaxy. But human body were designed with earth environment in mind, as such modifications were needed in order to adjust humanity to respective system. These adjustments gave rise to various interesting phenomena, namely, the Remniscience.

Remniscience is a phenomena where a human colony modified to suit a particular system developed unusual ability, like flight, telekinesis, clairvoyance and myriad other abilities. The colony which developed these abilities are called Remniscient races, and many information regarding Remniscience is closely guarded by respective colonies.

Procyon, G6T-1 Colony. 1 AM local time, exact date unknown, 27536 A.D.

Writing Prompt Response : Write something relating to 'space', take the word however you want.

Greeting, Wanderers!! Please forgive me for using this format instead of standard post!

As you can see, this is not the standard Scribble format, this one is a story that I wrote as a response on the Writing Prompt sub reddit. Not that you could even access reddit here in Indonesia, unless you used a few unfiltered DNSs. 
Writing Prompt is a sub where you could post an idea and let people write a story about it, or read ideas posted by others and write a story about it. This one below is an example of the latter. 

On another note, I'm terribly sorry for the last scribble, I hate killing characters and although sometimes it's necessary, the one on the last story is disappointing because it only serves as plot device on stagnated story. I would try to make death more sacred and meaningful, if I ever need it again. 

Let's get going. The tittle is a bit vague: it didn't even describe what was a space: a buletin board? A picture frame? An empty wall? For me, it's an empty room. Once, when my parents' home is being constructed, I took the liberty to enter one of the unfinished room, and I like it. I mean, it was empty (duh), and I just like imagining what I could fill it with, what would I do with it.

When everything had been set into place, it was too difficult to imagine it filled with anything else.

I like empty room.
But I like being in your side more ;) (take the sign already, b-baka!)

Fasten Your Seat belt, Wanderers!!!

It's always empty.

A room, second door to the left from the backdoor. Well, no one save employees would've know about that room anyway, but its emptiness baffled me.

The room's gray concrete wall isn't painted, and over time it gains a white and green pattern from the moss and rainwater oozing in. The main room is enough to hold the occasional patrons, and so there are no immediate need to expand customer area. And yet the bar owner doesn't use the room for storage either, the first room is more than enough for both rest area for employees and storage. Well, the employees only consist of me, the owner and her daughter, so there are no need to expand storage nor the rest area as well.

The room is always empty, sometimes in the dark and rainy night where no one comes I would nervously looked at the door connecting the rest area and the empty room, afraid some kind of abomination would break in. And then the owner's daughter would come to check on me, scare me to death and laugh at me.

Even after I graduated from high-school, I kept my job at the bar out of sentiment. Of course, I also got a job for the day, but I would spend most of the night at the bar. The owner was nice woman, but she was getting older, so I met her less often. By the time I got to fifth semester, she stopped visiting the bar entirely.

Her daughter was just a year younger than me. She keeps visiting the bar at night, supervising me, replacing her mother. Sometimes we just talk over coffee on the rest area, about movies, about music, small but nice talk. The room is still empty though, and I never asked her about it.

By the time I finished college, the daughter dropped out, and the bar closed. Apparently the owner sickness had worsened, and they decided to sell the building. I visit the owner sometimes, and paid part of the hospital fees without noticing them. But the daughter knows, and would scold me the next day, saying something about telling them first. I never told them though, they wouldn't accept my help.

The room stays empty, even two years after the bar sold and replaced by a small convenience store. The only difference is the white paint, apparently the new owner planned to use it as storage area.

Three years after the bar sold, I married the daughter, and the bar owner died. The room still empty, but I had purchased the room and only the room from the convenience store owner. It is now my personal spot, a memento from the dark and rainy night, an almost sacred place for both me and my wife. We repaint it together, with two walls for one person. The west and south wall is mine, painted navy blue and moss green, respectively. While the north and east wall belongs to her, painted bright pink and blazing orange.

A year later, our daughter was born. The room stays empty, though. We repaint it every year, but I never placed our belongings there. My wife would tease me about how I was afraid an alien or a ghost would come there at night. And then we would laugh together.

When our daughter was old enough to be elementary school student, I died. My wife didn't even cry for me, that tough bitch. But my daughter sensed her sadness, and cried for her.

The room stays empty, though it is a bit bleak now. My wife still repaints it every years, and she still keeps it empty, as though it is my second grave. Sometimes our daughter would spend her day there, but even her keeps the room empty and clean. My wife never forbid her to bring anything inside, but for some reason my daughter never keeps anything inside.

The room is empty, it always have, and it always will. Just like my wife's heart.

But I do wish I filled both of them when I could.

You might now unbuckle your seat belts.

What do you think? I don't really have anything else to say, so let's end it here.

Critique and suggestion is always welcome. See you next scribble, Wanderers!