I was asked to come up with something for Sally's eulogy, but I couldn't do it. What was I supposed to say? Sally lived for a “revolutionary” and “progressive” movement that used her for a dream that was in reality an abusive, manipulative lie? And, she was really great at it until she blasted her brains out on the floor? No, that wasn't the story they wanted me to tell.
By the time the Rebellion's image consultants were through with the clean-up (I had to hand it to them: it was impressive how quickly they came and sorted things out), the story of Sally's death had turned into a heroic attempt to get rid of highly contagious brain parasite that would have spread and rendered everyone at the facility mad – for which she would be posthumously awarded a strangely familiar-looking Excellence in Service medal. I politely declined being involved.
After Sally killed herself, things got a lot calmer, as all the patients were given their doses of morphine, properly tucked in and strapped down. Things got especially calmer after Dee-Three-Pee-Oh administered a shot to me as well, even though all I was doing was crying my eyes out on the floor, long after they'd dragged Sally's body away. My guess was that either the shot was to mitigate the high likelihood I'd lose my shit and go nuts like Sally – or, the first in a long series of shots to keep me quiet and subdued like Ben Kenobei, Yodda and the other “patients” who knew too much.
Fortunately, I did wake up, and unbound, though I guessed I was only spared a morphine-induced fate of drooling and bedsores because I still had deliveries to make. When my eyes re-focused properly, I was greeted by the sight of two wary-looking orderlies holding loaded hypo-injectors. It was an understandable precaution, but they needn't have bothered: I could barely summon the energy to dress myself, let alone start a pointless, useless riot.
I was meek and obedient, as I was led to my already loaded and prepped shuttle and handed my delivery datapad. Dee-Three-Pee-Oh was even on hand to say a few bland instructions and comments, which I suspected included the usual back-handed criticisms, but none of it landed and I merely nodded. During the entire time, I don't recall any eye-contact, while the only words that came out my mouth were simple one word yes-no answers – even though I should have said “Fuck off, you fucking droid” or something similar, or thrown myself at the machine and tried to beat it to pieces with the fucking datapad they'd given me.
Once I was safely away though, my mind drifted back to the past few days, to Carla, to Greido, to losing Sally, all pointless, useless deaths, just as my own life was pointless and useless. I spent a good hour crying, screaming, and cursing. What the fuck? What the fuck? It had all been so convincing, so fulfilling. And so very false. What path was there to follow now? Everything was tainted and suspect – even my own sanity and memories. Was any of the affection, the love, the belonging I had real? Or, were people laughing behind my back the whole time? Had I done anything good with my life at all? What the fuck indeed.
I did feel significantly better after I jettisoned the cargo from my shuttle. I had no idea what it was this time, but I couldn't care less. I just didn't want anything to do with it or the Rebellion for that matter. I felt even better still when, spotting a good sized, isolated asteroid I could land my shuttle on, I came to the decision to kill myself. The asteroid was about sub-moon sized, and it would mask my presence and block all radio-transmissions, giving me some much needed privacy.
Finding a nicely secluded crater to land in, I figured I had a number of options to me: the easiest, of course, would be to set the shuttle to auto-destruct, which would be fairly quick and painless; or I could always re-jig the engine to circulate ion-fumes into the cockpit and kill me through asphyxiation; or, the simplest of all, I could open the doors and I'd freeze to death fairly quickly. Having seen too many fiery, bloody deaths already and not particularly crazy about the idea of wheezing and gagging to death, I settled on death-by-freezing.
Straightening my jacket and putting myself in order (might as well be a decent looking corpse for anyone who found me), I strapped myself down so I wouldn't be sucked out. I swiveled my chair to put myself in reach of the airlock handle. Shit. I guess this is it. I just wished there'd been just... just... something more. I guess I'm yet another dumb, useless ass who couldn't hack it. As too much thinking started to rattle in my head, I realized I was losing my nerve. I was breathing too quickly now. Damn it, I was close to hyperventilating. Ok, calm down.
I rammed my hands into my pockets, rummaging around on the chance that there might have been nub of a spliff leftover to calm my nerves. Anything? Not this pocket, maybe the other one. Fuck, I wish I'd have had the foresight to keep a tiny bit for the off-chance – of what? I laughed. The off-chance that I may need a puff so I wouldn't be such a cowardly shit before I chickened out of committing suicide?
My hopes soared, however, when, rummaging through a side pocket in my jacket, my fingers found something crinkly. I pulled it out eagerly, hoping for the tiniest bit of weed – but instead found a neatly folded piece of paper. It was letter, and it was addressed to me. Pulling my hand away from the airlock, I unfolded the letter that had been stuffed into my pocket some time ago, and read my friend Mike's parting words,
Timmy-boy,
Shit, it feels like ages ago since we were chilling on the deck of the treatment center, huh? Man, I've been wanting to talk to you for ages, but we never seem to be in the same place for too long. There's so much I want to tell you and talk about! But, the way things are going, who the fuck knows when's the next time we're going to see each other? Anyway, I'm writing this letter to you now, cuz if I die I told my squad-mates to give it to you. (I had to tell them you were my boyfriend, so if they give you any problems, you know why. Sorry.)
Dude, I know you've been wanting to be out with me where the action is, but, seriously, it isn't what you think. We get to shoot lots of stuff and blow shit up... I know that's what you want, but if you've spent one mission with me, you won't want to be part of it...
Like right now, I'm writing from a shit-hole in the ground. It really is a shit-hole. We're hiding from the troopers in a latrine and we've been waiting here two days for the heat to pass. And you know? Sitting in shit is pretty much standard with our officers' half-assed planning. Throw in lots of running for our lives and people dying around us, and it's pretty much a regular Rebel mission.
There's lots I can't tell you, or they'll fry my brain, but the things I've done, the things I've seen... Sorry, bro. I don't mean to be a downer. It's been a tough time. I know I shouldn't be complaining or pointing out shit that doesn't make sense to me or seems wrong... but I'm having a hard time buying their reasons these days... Fuck, why did we leave the Service again?
I think I've been causing too much trouble, cuz I'm not sure they want me around any more. I keep on being assigned to harder and crazier missions that I somehow manage to survive. Shit, I was really close to dying the last one when they asked me to steal a shuttle to infiltrate some jungle moon. Now they want me to get the pass-codes for a military installation that's protected up the wazoo. I don't know if I can make it this time. Seems like a suicide run to me.
Man, we sure fucked things up “discovering ourselves”! Louke and Haan keep telling us that it's growing pains and we'll come out ahead in the end. We all have our tests and we should have faith in the Powaah. Right. I don't fucking know anymore. Haan keeps smiling at us and telling us we're doing great, we're fighting for a great cause, we're doing amazing things, we're making a difference. If I hear that shit again, I'll go nuts.
Fuck, it would have been so much easier if we hadn't gone and had our eyes opened up! I guess we can't go back now. But fuck. We should have our chance at finding something we'd be really happy with. Not someone else's made-up shtick to fill our emptiness. Our own thing. That isn't too much to ask is it? How hard can it fucking be?
You know, looking back on it all, our lives were pretty shitty, but there were good parts to it. I figure if we'd stayed put and found some way to
be ok with it, we might have enjoyed our lives more. We might not have fought so hard against it, and we'd even been happy doing the dumb ass things we were doing before. Ah, hell. How about it?
If I survive, let's try finding our own thing some time, alright? In the meantime, keep your head down and don't make too much trouble, or they'll have to get rid of you too and put you on a bullshit mission to keep you from everyone else. Don't let them fuck you over, ok?
Tim, shit. It's not that I want to fuck you or anything. Honest, you're too skinny for me and I think I'd probably snap you in two. But I miss you buddy. I miss our times together. I don't think I ever told you how much I appreciated your friendship with me. So there you go. I really appreciate you, bud.
You keep well, alright? Try not do anything stupid or put your dick anywhere you shouldn't.
Love ya, Tim,
Mike
I sniffled as I wiped my eyes yet again. Goddamn bastard made me cry. Folding Mike's letter and putting it somewhere safe, I reached over to the airlock handle again – and hesitated. It would be so easy to call it good right now. I'd done my best, right? Fuck this galaxy. It doesn't want me, so why should I stay?
And yet... There had been good times. There could be more, I guess. I shouldn't let those so-called Rebels fuck me over. Goddamn it, Mike! I angrily reached over to the shuttle controls and initiated the start-up sequence, unsure of where I was going. Damn it! Goddamn it, Mike! Fuck you for putting doubts in my mind.
I love you too, Mike.