An Argument On Suicide

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Why don’t you join us? You could see the stars better from the control room.”

“I’m not here to look at the stars. I wanted to be alone.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, no—I apologize. That was rude. It’s a difficult day for me.”

“That’s alright. In my research I have read that humans feel the need to talk about their feelings without necessarily looking for a solution. I can listen, if you like.”

“Research, huh? How out of character. Didn’t know you found me so interesting.”

“I do find you interesting.”

“It was a joke.”

“Oh.”

“You couldn’t find more comfortable chairs to put in here? You know, anything other than a block of stone?”

“Ship came this way, I’m afraid.”

“Well, we could do some re-decorating.”

“Is that what you were thinking about?”

“I was just thinking… of my brother. Today is the anniversary of his death.”

“I am sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”

“Four years ago. He was eighteen.”

“So young for an illness. Was it an accident?”

“No. Suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes, suicide.”

“The translator is working, however it didn’t translate the previous word. What does ‘suicide’ mean?”

“These translators are not all that, huh?”

“He killed himself.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? He jumped off from a cliff.”

“H-How?”

“How what?”

“Was he—was he cursed? Was he under some type of mind control?”

“No. No, it was his own choice.”

“How—how could that be? How could anyone do such a thing?”

“He was suffering from depression. He had his reasons, as he wrote on his note. It doesn’t make it easier for me to come up in terms with, though.”

“No—no, I mean—I mean—”

“I—I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Killed—he—he did what?”

“I don’t follow. Kirat, you’ve never heard of someone who killed themselves?”

“No? Of course not! How could that be? How could anyone end their own lives? By choice?”

“Was he—was he forced into it? I don’t understand.”

“No, I told you, it was his choice.”

“How?”

“Kirat, how can you never have heard of people killing themselves?”

“Because it’s mad? It’s—It’s beyond mad, it’s impossible! People can’t kill themselves!”

“Yes, they can.”

“No—no they can’t! No—why would they?”

“They don’t wanna live anymore.”

“But—but—”

“But don’t your species have a sense of survival?”

“We do. But it’s not so simple.”

“How is it not simple? If it is indeed your instinct?”

“It’s not that they don’t wanna live. It’s that they don’t wanna live the way they do.”

“They can change that!”

“Sometimes there’s no way to do so.”

“There’s always a way!”

“Kirat, sometimes, you have the necessary tools to fix something, but don’t have energy in your body to use them. Sometimes you have the energy, but the world—the people, have taken away your means. And sometimes—sometimes you have both, but no longer the will to do so. That you have fixed the same thing so many times, over and over and over, that you forgot what was even the point for it all. Why everything needed fixing, why every moment required endurance, why every day demanded a battle. That it’s just easier to stop. To stop fixing. To stop enduring. To stop the fight.”

“You never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Any day, things might get better.”

“Being tortured for two weeks without knowing when it’s gonna end is much worse than being tortured for two months knowing when you’ll be free.

“I…”

“I—I think I understand what you mean, at least I’m trying to. But—I mean, how can he do it?”

“How can someone do it… physically, I mean… perform the act? Wouldn’t their mind, their body stop them before they could?”

“It’s—well humans can. We have evolved to do so. I mean—no—actually it is in contradiction with our nature. It’s just that, in that moment, the pain seems worse than death. Death doesn’t feel like a contradiction, it feels like escape. It feels like a solution to every single problem we have. And I guess sometimes we are fully aware of what it means, and that’s what we want. For some, existence is not worth the cost.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I cannot imagine how painful that must be.”

“I keep thinking how much he must have suffered.”

“No—I mean yes, of course. He—he must have. He must be in great pain to do—to do… such a thing. But I meant you. If someone in my life had done this, I don’t know how I could have lived knowing that they were at the edge of madness and I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t even know.”

“Did you know? That he was in pain? That he was planning to do that?”

“No. He didn’t tell me. And I was… away. Too far to have noticed.”

“Excuse me.”

“Kirat, it’s okay to cry.”

“We—we don’t show our emotions easily, it’s very private.”

“To be honest, I am ashamed of my reaction. Especially in your state of vulnerability.”

“It’s alright. I understand it can be disconcerting. And I’m not looking for emotional support. Not that anyone can give it to me anyway.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s—It’s just—I’m trying to be respectful but—”

“It’s—It’s horrible…”

“I—how, how, how…”

“How can anyone give up such a beautiful thing?”

“How can anyone set their final breath free?”

“The note… Is that what they leave behind when they—when they do it?”

“Yes. It’s their last words, so to speak.”

“Is it acceptable to ask—appropriate—what it said?”

“It said many things, but…”

“It can be different for anybody. Some people write it for themselves, some people for the ones left behind. His was the latter. In fact…”

“One part of it—I can’t seem to forget, even though I want to.”

“He wrote ‘I’ve tried to do it many times, but each time I sat down to write this, I noticed how much I still have left to say. That I still hadn’t given up, I was still waiting for something, for what I don’t know. So I told myself, if one day I should sit here and be alright with leaving the page empty, that’s when I’ll know. That it’s time.’”

“I remember him telling me on one of our calls that he started collecting rocks. He asked me what would be the best place to display them. And I told him to keep them in a box. That collections collect dust.”

“Unless you have it in you to clean them everyday. Which my brother clearly didn’t.”

“You… resent him, for what he did.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Why? Is it because he didn’t consider the pain of the ones left behind?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t resent him.”

“You haven’t forgiven him.”

“Stop this. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m merely stating my observation.”

“Don’t state anything! This isn’t any of your concern.”

“Why are you getting angry?”

“Because you’re meddling with things you shouldn’t!”

“I was just trying to help.”

“Help with what? You’re gonna bring him back?”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I don’t care what you think!”

“You should just let it out.”

“I’m not holding in anything!”

“He’s gone. What are you trying to prove to anyone?”

“Stop it!”

“What is it? What is so heavy on your heart?”

“My brother is dead! How about that for a start?”

“That’s not the reason. What is it?”

“Enough! What—what is this? What’s gotten into you? You were better when you stayed silent!”

“Just say it. You’ll feel better.”

“You don’t know what I need! You don’t know what you’re talking about! You don’t know anything!”

“Just say it.”

“I said enough! What do you want from me?”

“Just say it.”

“Why are you running away?”

“I’m not running! I just got sick of your conversation!”

“Just say it.”

“Just say it.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“I didn’t do it!”

“Did he think I didn’t want to? That I hadn’t stood at the edge? I did! I chose to walk back!”

“Did he—did he think that I didn’t care? That I was invincible? Untouchable?”

“He—”

“He saw me coming out of the sea, did he think the storm threw me into the air and the waves tossed me to the shore? That I happened to survive? I chose to survive! I swam my way there! I kept my eyes on the land and I surfed through the waves!”

“Did he… did he think it was easy?”

“It wasn’t. It was pain… undiluted pain. One I didn’t give into.”

“I’ve done it again. And again. And again.”

“And now my hair reeks of salt.”

“Because you still have things left to say.”

“Yes. Humans are fools like that.”

“If so, then it seems he surmounted that weakness.”

“It seems so.”

“It seems he was stronger that me. Braver than me. For accepting reality.”

“May I ask… is being foolish a weakness?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“On your planet, is intelligence the master form of your species?”

“Isn’t it on every planet?”

“Not in ours.”

“You said it yourself. Your species put logic above all else.”

“Not really. We prefer the logic in acting on our emotions, when the time and place is right. We never deny them. Or shame someone for being foolish for feeling a tug that holds them to life. The most beautiful gift we ever received.”

“The ribbons are made of steel.”

“I suppose they are difficult to unravel on your own.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“Why didn’t you hand yourself over to the storm?”

“I—”

“The truth is… it wasn’t just what was left to say, but also what was left to hear.”

“Back on Earth, I would ask people this question, every now and then: ‘If you were born four hundred years ago, have lived a perfect life—perfect family, perfect marriage, riches, travels, food, any beauty that time could offer, and suffer from no illness and die peacefully in your sleep at eighty years old, would you be content?’”

“What did they say?”

“They all said yes.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“If I had lived that perfect life, I never would have heard our songs made with machines, the strange clothes we designed, colorful and cheap. This translation device and this uncomfortable chair made of such weird material.”

“If I had died four hundred years ago, I never would have met you. I never would have gazed upon constellations while eating dinner. I never would have heard the silence they created.”

“I—I wanna live forever, because—”

“I just can’t stand the idea of a world existing, turning, living… and me not being a part of it.”

“I always hated humans but I love humanity. I always hated living but I love being alive.”

“There’s this poem. Written by an Earthling:”

“Without me there are no roses, no tall cypresses.

No scarlet lips, no wine rich with fragrance.

No mornings, no evenings, no joy, no sorrow.

I think, therefore the world is.

I’m not here, it’s not here.”