Mind Tricks
by Corellian Blue
(first published 2003, revised 2016, 2020)
Warnings: mental health issues; suicide attempt
III
By the time Han made it to the safety of his cabin, the pain was unbearable. The gun-rig fell from his hips as he snapped open the buckle, hanging from his leg until he popped the tie-down strap from his thigh, where it clattered to the deck. He dropped the medpack on the desk, fingers fumbling with the catch as he struggled to open it. He grabbed the spray pack that contained a combination disinfectant/anaesthetic and turned to the small mirror mounted near the closet.
The face that confronted him was not his own. Pale and drawn, the red-rimmed eyes and dark stubble of beard were the only colours on his skin. He lifted his chin, wincing when he saw what was causing the excruciating pain for the last few hours. The blister was a perfect circle, the diameter of his blaster's muzzle, the legacy of trying to blow his head off with a blaster still hot from target practice.
There was a moment of agony as he sprayed the wound, before the pain-killing properties of the medication slipped in and his shoulders sagged in relief. He reached back into the medpack and brought out a tube of salve. The burn was now numb, but he gingerly applied the salve, being careful not to burst the blistering skin. He finished by placing a strip of synthflesh over the burn and sat down heavily on his bunk.
He had no idea why he was still alive.
The urge to kill himself had been reflexive, unpremeditated, and at the time had seemed the only solution to the problems afflicting him. An undeniable rush of relief had initially engulfed him in the moment it took to realise he'd found the guts to turn the blaster on himself. But something had gone wrong. The blaster's firing system had made an audible click as it caught on the safety mechanism.
Finger quivering on the trigger, Han had remained in that position, blaster pressed up into his jaw, drowning as the blood rushed in his ears. He couldn't remember flicking on the safety. Perhaps that had also been instinctive, his self-preservation kicking in.
The stubble on his chin had offered short-lived protection from the heat of the blaster's muzzle, before the scorching pain had forced him to drop the weapon.
The failed suicide attempt had left him nauseous and unstable, and he'd spent a bad five minutes vomiting and dry retching into the dirt beside the pyre. Not confident of his ability to ride the speeder bike, he'd left it near the shuttle, and had spent some time wandering through the forest in a semi-daze, trying to work out if he should be frustrated or grateful that he couldn't manage to kill himself.
The ice-cold water from a stream had offered him some relief from the pain of the burn. Lying flat out on the ground, he'd immersed his head in the gentle current, rinsing the bile from his mouth and the pyre smoke from his face. Then he'd rolled onto his back and allowed the guilt to wash over him.
Most of his life had been spent eluding death, and although he'd never seriously considered his own mortality, he had a healthy respect towards dying. His suicide would have seen him achieve what countless adversaries had failed. Including the carbonite and Vader.
His death would have affected more than just himself. The Life Debt Chewbacca had pledged to him would've been shattered and incomplete. The Wookiee would've been inconsolable and racked with guilt over his inability to save his Honour Brother from himself. Luke and Lando would've had similar feelings of guilt and sympathy. But the person who would've been affected most by his death would have been Leia.
For a young woman, Leia had experienced more grief and hardship than anyone deserved. She had witnessed the annihilation of her homeworld and struggled through years of war against the Empire. The last ten months had been the most trying for her. They had both endured living nightmares throughout the time he'd been frozen in carbonite. Killing himself may have solved his immediate problems, but they would have forced more grief and anguish onto the woman he loved.
Suicide was a selfish act the old Solo may have contemplated, the man he had been before he had fallen in love with Leia. He loved Leia so dearly, he should have been doing everything in his power to protect her from the kind of pain and distress he knew his death would have caused. And yet he had come so close to causing the very things he should've been protecting her against.
It was late afternoon by the time Han had found the strength to rise from the place beside the stream. He'd hoped that Leia had returned from the medical frigate by then, trying to convince himself that he did want to see her, that he didn't care who her father was. If he thought it often enough, perhaps he would believe it.
The gathering Han had found outside the Falcon had surprised him, until he'd remembered the celebratory dinner Leia had mentioned that morning. He'd been in no mood for partying, and the laughter from his friends only caused him more guilt. Here they were celebrating life and friendship, and he'd been aiming for the opposite. Gratefully, he'd been able to move into the Falcon without delay or questions he was not sure how he would have answered.
Han leaned forward, dropped his head into his hands. His mind was so full images and emotions from the past day, it felt like it would explode. He was tempted to head back outside and ask Leia for the medication she had promised she would return with. The drofic had already proven that it provided relief, but temporary was all it was. Although only mildly addictive, Han was concerned that he could become reliant on the drug. For him, the fact that he wanted the drug was enough reason not to take it. Besides, what kind of life would it be if he had to use a spice derivative to help him to replicate the emotions and actions that were now so foreign to him? He did not want to live a lie.
He was exhausted, he knew that much, and the exhaustion was only adding to his confusion. Sleep would be the only safe way to slow his brain down, give his body time to recover. But as there was no way he'd been able to sleep in his current state, he turned his attention back to the medpack. A sedative was his only hope.
Han had no personal experience with the hypo-tranquilliser, no idea how effective if would be or how quickly it would work. Fully clothed and boots still on, he settled himself out on his bunk, pressed the hypo-infuser to his neck and administered the sedative. He was out before he could return the infuser to the desktop.