Suicide Flight

[Khendon S]

Khendon lay in his bed, covered in sweat, bedspread soaked, looking at the ceiling blankly. His room was baron, black, dark, and depressing. His eyes had massive black circles around them, formed from the endless lack of sleep he had been receiving. Khendon had too much work to sleep; he had a small, ever growing empire, no strike that, organization, to develop.

Khendon had been running strategies through his mind the entire night, talking with Generals and Admirals, discussing why productivity was so low, why planets weren’t being assimilated properly, why training was slacking, why… why was the Guild so weak, so poorly defended, why were his dreams shattered.

Khendon threw the sheets from his body, the sheets landed in a pile next to the edge of his bed. As the strong man lifted his body from the bed, he spat up a slight amount of blood, his body was rejecting the medication that he had been self administering in order to stay sharp, stay awake, control his eye’s twitching.

Khendon looked towards the blackened windows, his face showing the full blown signs of depression; paleness, looking into the distance, past all possible sight ranges, large bags of black forming under and around his eyes. Khendon had started to lose all neatness; his clothing was wrinkled terribly, his hair was a mess, he didn’t even have clean socks on.

As the figure got out of bed, already wearing a suit for the day, he walked over to his computer, “Computer, cancel all meetings, cancel the breakfast invitation, cancel my dinner reservations… cancel my flight to the outer areas of the empire…” said Khendon in a low, mumbled, hoarse voice.

“As you command, Khendon,” said the computer in a metallic, empty voice.

[Khendon S]

Khendon took off his wrinkled suit and put on a simple black shirt and beige pants outfit. He slid his ID card into the palm of his left hand, slowly lifting it upwards, into his vision. As he looked at the cheerful man in the photograph, and the information and clearance on it, a tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a streak of distorted color across the skin it touched. Khendon shook his head, the card dropped to the floor with a loud click, shattering into several pieces.

The once proud Khendon filled the sink with ice from a refrigerator and filled the bathtub with warm water. He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering why he was bound to a soul, why he, a once strong, self determined figure, was now nothing more than a man who held cards speaking of his own demise. Khendon shook the feeling off, another tear rolling down the side of his face, falling into the slightly melted ice with a thick sounding splash.

Khendon opened the area used to contained medication in his mirror, taking out a bottle of prescription drugs and a razor. He looked at the two objects sorrowfully, what had life become to him, something he could take away so easily? Or just a blockage in his becoming greater, a restriction to his soul that was causing him pain?

[Khendon S]

Khendon pondered these thoughts a second more, the tears fell from his eyes like a waterfall, soaking it in entirety, and starting to make splotch marks on his shirt. Khendon brought his hands up, looking at his palms, contemplated what taking his own life would mean. Wondering what everyone would think if he died, would anyone know? Would anyone care, he knew the answer. The answer was no, no one would care; no one knew his name besides the people he worked with. He had spent years of his life for nothing, spending hours, days researching and developing, programming and calculating, for what? For an upstart empire, for an image of something powerful, a goal that could never be reached?

Khendon didn’t know what the answers to his questions were, hell, he didn’t even know what all of his questions were. All Khendon knew was that there was something tugging at his soul, something yelling at him, controlling him at times. Life had been hard on Khendon, first his father died, then his brother disowned him, his family laughing at him the entire time as he took his portion of the family money and empire and started a corporation that never amounted to anything. Even though his research was far ahead of its time, and most of the technology he employed superior to that of any other… it had rarely been tested in battle, would it work?

“If I die now, who will take over the empire?” Khendon thought, but who would? Mark Fenix, he didn’t know how to run a fleet, the Guild would fall into chaos, and everyone would take parts of it, destroying his creation. Khendon enjoyed creating things more than anything, even if people didn’t enjoy his creations… it didn’t matter to him.

[Khendon S]

Khendon wondered who Viscera would find to command the Coruscant sector, who would develop the technologies of tomorrow to aid them in their endeavors… frankly, it didn’t matter to Khendon, he had his own problems, and no one else’s mattered as long as he had those problems.

Khendon closed the mirror, looking at himself again. He tried to imagine himself lifeless, blood freely flowing from his wrists… he couldn’t do it; his human mind wouldn’t let him. Khendon looked towards the computer, should he write a message, an explanation… no, the only reason for him to take his own life was that he was childish, and he knew it. Him trying to explain the pain, the suffering, the depression… would have caused all others to laugh.

Khendon picked up the blade, letting the light catch on it. The blade was new, clean, metallic… it was sharp enough to cut paper when you dropped it upon the blade, but Khendon would have used a dull one if he could. The companies didn’t make dull ones; blades never went dull, in fact. Most blades now and days were laser cut to fine points; they would never go dull; long after Khendon’s death, his blade would still be lethally sharp.

[Khendon S]

The thought of the blade being able to endure cutting through the veins in his wrist and, possibly, clear through the bone, startled Khendon. He knew he had to be lying in order to receive injections from a needle and not faint, let alone cut into an object that sustained him. Khendon didn’t understand the point of life; you live for a short, futile time, hopefully make the most of it, and then die, like a common creature, no matter how grand you are. Khendon shook his head again, tears slowing slightly.

Khendon put down the blade and walked back to his bed, sitting on it, looking at the blank walls of his room. “Think, think… who will find my body?” Khendon couldn’t think of anyone that would intrude upon his privacy, not even Mark. Khendon began to cry again, he had no one. His friends had been growing further apart, literal systems away, doing who knows what.

How long would it take for the message of his death to reach them after his body was found? Minutes, hours, weeks, months? Would they ever find out, or would it be hushed up. Would they clone him, bring him back to life… “Life, there is no such thing,” thought Khendon. “If I were a live, would I have the ability to take it?” Khendon waited for an answer, but none came.

The bare walls cursed Khendon’s name, they laughed at him, and they detested him for his actions, his thoughts. He was taking away something they had never had, life, true feelings, the ability to touch, to love… if they had known Khendon truly, the would know that was a lie, Khendon never loved… he only truly love he had was for his work, and no other.

[Khendon S]

Khendon slid off the bed and onto his knees. He looked up at the ceiling, gripping his hands into a single fist, locking his fingers around each other like a group of people huddling to hear a preacher’s words. “Dear, God. Please, oh please.” Khendon released a whimper and started again, “God, please… I’m sorry for not believing in you, I’m sorry for not understanding you, for not understanding more about you… why do you torture me?! Why must I have emotion, do I ever use it besides against my self? I under mine my every move with emotion; I bring things to light because I feel they should be, not because I must.

“God? If I were to die, would I go to a place, or would I see nothing, blackness… emptiness, death… Wh…” Khendon stopped, he had begun to whimper unstoppably, taking in sharp gasps of air that caused his throat to become sore, his moistened face was ravaged by even more tears.

Khendon knew the answer, but he wouldn’t admit it. He had never believed in a greater being, and knew why… the simple answer was that it was impossible for there to be one.

[Khendon S]

Khendon knew death was upon him; its dark shroud was ready to cloak him forever, to collect his thoughts, emotions, and actions and forever silence them and himself. He would fade away, like every other man, he would surly never see another day, if only because he believed he would never see another one.

Khendon, who had literally collapsed to the ground, brought his arm back and slammed his right hand, balled into a fist, into the ground, producing small spouts of blood from it and the shattered wood floor. Khendon’s tears stopped, his whimpering slowed and he took several deep breaths, silencing himself. He could feel the pain pulsing through his arm, it reminded him of his fight with Nichos Marr, a great warrior. They had both been battered, seriously, near death. Khendon, if he could, would give almost anything to reminisce over a bottle of whisky with the man who had so badly injured him, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

A smile escape Khendon, but quickly vanished, as if it has been a spasm of his lip.

[Khendon S]

In that brief second Khendon realized something, killing himself would stop his own creativity, he wouldn’t be able to express himself ever again, and he wouldn’t have friends to enjoy the sun set with, to watch as the stars fly by, massing like sharks around a fresh kill. But, as Khendon believed he would continue on, the depression increased. His thoughts consisted of the pain he had caused to others… killing… maiming, drawing blood… for what purpose? To further the Galactic Empire, to further the Guild? Or for his own blood lust? He was the only one to blame for other people’s suffering, for his own suffering, and he must end it.

Khendon got up, wiping the tears from his face, and recomposing himself. He walked into the bathroom. Most of the ice had melted over the duration of Khendon’s contemplation, but it was still cold enough. Khendon picked up the blade, setting it against his left wrist, forgetting the ice or the warm water, which would numb the pain and soften the skin.

Khendon moved the blade slightly, blood dribbling down into the sink. He pushed the blade forward, as he did this a last tear rolled down his eye, and he pushed further, jets of blood tinting the mirror red, tainting the purity of the water below, cursing the walls for their rejection, cursing all for his own faults… but most importantly, cursing himself. Khendon quickly pulled the blade back out, throwing it aside. His face showed pain, and regret.

Suddenly, Khendon didn’t want to die. He wanted to see things he hadn’t seen before; he wanted to fall in love, to live his life again! He wanted to continue creating things; he wanted to continue commanding things. He had cured his depression, but at what cost? Khendon’s eyes closed.