Trigger Warning: Thoughts of suicide.
"The things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal."
Apostle Paul.
There were days when he sat and only sat…wondering why him, why everything should go on. Were it not for him, she would still be alive…His mother, the first female figurehead in his life that mattered anything.
Taken from him so young, what was a boy to think of the opposites in that world…The opposites of good, happiness, security, comfort…safety.
Kolyat brooded over this in his apartment on Kahje, moving the liquor in his glass with small swirls on the varnished countertop…The sound of ticking somewhere nearby, not a clock for they did not have clocks of such analog noise among their kind…A metronome sphere that hovered in an anti-gravity disc that circulated messages to and from the government's inlet of work-related scans and distributions of said scans to his desk for further pushing off to other addresses per the code in each letterhead.
It was "arduous" work, Kolyat felt for it was hard to keep his eyes open…The alcohol did not help…but what else does one do whenever he tries to forget?
His father had not been the best role model growing up…Always pushing him off his knee when the messages came through on his terminal…Never around to teach him how to be a man…Drell…Whatever pertained to either species.
Kolyat tipped the glass to his mouth, swallowed the harsh resinous drink in his throat, and felt his belly burn immediately upon contact.
His gaze sought the metronome sphere and he pushed it away from him, signing off for the day…It was close of the day at this hour in any case.
He pulled out the gun from his desk and considered it, …If I try tonight, would it really matter if it worked or not?…He has the nerve to put it to his under-jaw, but only strokes the trigger with his fingers, not actually depressing the button that will activate the ammo and launch its Death into his skull.
He sets it back into the drawer with a loud bang.
Taking his coat and drawing it over his sleeves, he heads out of the office for that evening.
The traffic is smooth for a weekday night and driving the old and dented skyrunner, Kolyat maneuvers through the lines of schools of vessels attached to the artery connecting holospheres to one and other. Music plays on the station set, that comms with the external orbital of satellite feedback.
The skyrunner swerves into the off-ramp and he keels the the vessel to the bottom turning point, taking a sharp right to catch the exit he needs to turn homebound.
The messages icon on his dashboard displays…Kolyat taps it with his dual-digit and listens.
"Kol, there's a few guys getting together for drinks tonight on the sun-up cliff face, you want to join, be there." The voice belongs to his friend, Ronun Bofrintalok. Taking another turn on the new outbound tube, he turns and heads for Moraphidee Bay, where the cliff Ronun speaks of may be found.
The gang's all there…Kolyat closes his door and jams his hands into his armpits, "It's brisk tonight," he goes to the cliff-dropoff and stands beside the others, talking and griping and drinking out of red bottles. A few smoke bedis and the flames they use light in the rain with hisses and spits. He bums one off his pal, Ronun, who gives him a light with it.
"What's the news, Kol," Ronun smiles his red lips, the kind that attract the woman left and right…His face is red, too, and he has a yellow color over his crests.
Kolyat replies, "…Same old buttons and parses, Ronun," he exhales a jet of smoke, "…Putting a thumb to it and that will be my last job on my record…What are you up to."
"Got a slab-scraper role at Barifidio in Retra," he looks with Kolyat over the dropoff, "…About fifty Dragu a year."
"That's better than what you were making at the old processing plant, right?" Kolyat shuffles his feet to stay warm in his shoes. The air is damp and cold.
"Better than taking a piss in a reflector can," he remarks about the canisters that spray back if the drum inside these is hit right by a stream of water, "…It will pay the bills." He checks Kolyat's clothes, "…You thinking of quitting work?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe, huh…I have that old ship you can borrow if you can get it working." Kolyat shakes his head.
"No thanks," he takes out his bedi, "…I'm all set…I'm going to get an early night in, Ronun, you mind," and his buddy shakes his hand as if waving the trouble off, "…Right, see you later then."
Kolyat goes back to his ride and the others cluster together in the drab weather…Kahje is always like it…Unpleasant, a wet morass full of blue depths that disappear into canyons.
Kolyat flies to his old home in the bay he grew up in until she died.
The day passes. I feel less and less a human being, more and more the "Thing" or the woman who never dies…only persists like the story of a bad nightmare, unable to be shaken off. I want so much to enjoy living…Why not when so many gave their lives—Because they had to, not because they wanted to.
I reach for the gun and I know when I pull this trigger, it will be loud.