I yield the balance of my time

General Goose · #1

On paper, Harun Kemal had enjoyed quite a good life.

Much more successful than the average person, despite (or as some had speculated, because of) his experiences as one of the few survivors of SOTF.

Physically, a few remaining scars on his fingers were the only real reminders of Harun's time on the island. Upon closer examination, it would be pretty obvious even to a medical novice that the cuts were once pretty deep and gory, but it would also be pretty obvious that they healed pretty quickly. Other than that, Harun's physical health had, if anything, improved since he was rescued; within the next couple of years, he'd lost weight, gained muscle, was no longer as shockingly pale and had adopted a more healthy diet.

Psychologically, Harun was long-regarded as one of the most mentally stable of the survivors, without a doubt. That's not to say all the others went batshit insane and planned assassination attempts on the President of Austria, but Harun seemed to be one of the quickest to...maybe not recover, but readjust to everyday life. Sure, his time in university was postponed a couple of years as he recovered, but Harun, by the time he was 30, reported no particularly disturbing nightmares, no urges to self-harm, no indication of any depression, deep internal anguish or mental illness whatsoever.

True, his time on the island didn't rid him of his social anxiety (pre-existing condition, after all), and he did develop a bit of a phobia of long bus or coach trips, but, meh, minor problems. He hadn't developed a phobia of anything else associated with his time on the islands, like collars or gluten-free soups. He even had a good laugh, instead of recoiling in fear, when he noticed a "Mr. Danya" on the list of teachers in his son's school.

He hadn't stepped foot in Minnesota, let alone St. Paul, ever since his father's funeral in '27. Hadn't needed to. Neither work nor family nor anything else had given him a reason to step foot in that state.

And Harun didn't mind.

He didn't see Minnesota in a nostalgic light. Had no particular desire to go back there. He didn't think it would trigger some uncomfortable, traumatising memories of Survival of the Fittest or open some repressed memory, Freudian-style (that was Freud, right?)

Nope. He was fine in Austin. Texas had treated him well.

He had a happy family, a good career, a nice house. He had spent some time working in the video games industry, and after a few other jobs, had become a politician, and was now serving in the US House of Representatives. Considering his background and the struggles he went through (from his time on Survival of the Fittest to the cancer death of his wife), Harun could look at both the list of accomplishments on his Wikipedia page and the mostly-happy family he headed with a sense of pride.

Which made it all the more frustrating that he knew it was only a matter of time before it all imploded and crashed around his ears.

He was 73 years old. He was one of the most influential and successful lawmakers and, dare he say it, statesmen in Texan history. He was frequently cited as one of the best examples of how someone could get over their problems, financial or otherwise, and go on to live the American dream.

But now, just because of one morally-dubious deal he made with a lobbyist a few years ago, a deal that was quite tame by the ethically-challenged standards of Congress, he knew it was only a matter of time before his blackmailer decided to release it to the press, start a major scandal, and pull fifty million skeletons, both real and imagined, out of the closet in one move. He knew it was only a matter of time before his reputation would be destroyed, his achievements dusted under the carpet, his allies abandoned him in droves, and he would be assigned to history as one of those infamous long-time incumbents brought down in a corruption scandal.

Harun won extra irony points for being the chair of the ethics committee.

He had brought down his fair share of rising stars and old dogs, and had long been considered one of the most ethical and least-wasteful members of Congress. But that would all be over soon. Sure, he had ended the careers of many other lobbyists and aides and members of Congress before, and put them through undeniably similar situations, but that was all different. This was an exaggeration. It was overblown. He was the victim here.

At the end of the day, all it was was turning a blind eye to one of the biggest scandals of our generation agreeing to focus on other problems before turning his attention to the strange campaign contributions and expenses a few of his colleagues had received. He hadn't done anything wrong himself; he hadn't hurt anyone or...actively deceived anyone. But he knew how it would be portrayed.

Which was why he was doing what he was doing.

He turned the revolver over in his hands.

The feel of it, the look of it, the worn-out, dirty silver look that said it had seen better days.

Reminded him of the gun he'd used to kill Rashid.

Oh, how he'd forgotten Rashid. How he'd forgotten Roland and Dutchy and Hermione and Mia and Vera and everyone else he'd met on the island or befriended before that...he'd forgotten them all. Hell, he'd even lost contact with the other survivors of the "game" lately. Completely forgotten all his old friends and interests, the thing that defined him when he was younger. Tried to run away from and completely forget about his past.

In his honest opinion, that was the real crime he'd committed.

But the ethics committee and the media didn't care for passionate, emotional defences like that. Harun had made sure of it.

Sighing, he stroked his stubble and stared out of the window. Yes, he'd made all the preparations, written the vengeful "fuck you" letter that brought down a few of the more egregious members of Congress that he hoped would be his legacy. But it was not too late to turn back.

Committing suicide to escape a perfectly-survivable political scandal and try and preserve his legacy (a legacy that in all honesty likely wouldn't go beyond a few books on a library shelf and his name on some Austin post office) seemed rather cowardly. He didn't have a more "legitimate", sympathetic reason. He couldn't even say he was really depressed due to other things and was using this as an excuse; he wasn't. He felt fine otherwise. He was probably overreacting.

Turning the gun over in his hands, his mind briefly wandered over to how his suicide might affect others. There'd be no real political consequences. This was Austin; a Republican would have no chance of succeeding him. He had no real "best friend" who relied on Harun as a rock and would crumble without him. All his other friends had experienced tragedies before; to say they'd be disproportionately affected by this one would be quite self-centred of Harun, to assume he was that important in that many lives. He couldn't justify leaving behind his family in such a sudden and non-ceremonial manner, but he was 73. That wasn't old enough to qualify as being on anyone's death watch-list (with modern medicine, people were expected to live to 90. Too old in Harun's opinion), but it was old enough for his death to not be mourned as the loss of a young life.

He hadn't deserved to have survived his time on the island. He wasn't the fittest; quite frankly, he'd been living on time he hadn't earned or deserved ever since he stepped on that boat. He wasn't good-hearted or kind or popular or intelligent enough to have to live for those whose lives had been cut short by those terrorists, even if that was responsibility was shared with nearly 30 others.

He stared at the letter. In addition to containing enough dirt to bring down a few more deserving colleagues (he thought if they might be pushed to suicide too by the destruction of their political careers, but meh, not Harun's problem), it also served as a long-winded suicide note. Feeble attempts to justify his actions, say his goodbyes, explain why he felt killing himself was unnecessary, yadda yadda yadda. He had joked quietly to himself it was more of a suicide novel, but that was irrelevant.

He switched the radio off. He had quietly been absorbing the news and discussion that had been coming from it, hoping his name wouldn't crop up in a news report. Even though he would be "leaving" his job as a representative of the people shortly, he still thought it was important to maintain some degree of knowledge over current affairs, no matter what the situation or how useless that news would become.

He finished tidying his desk. That basically involved moving a few papers and some paraphernalia into corners or random drawers, while making sure the letter he wanted people to read so much was placed prominently in the centre of the desk.

He turned the gun over in his hands for a few more seconds.

He was hesitant.

As always, he was procrastinating.

He wasn't ready.

But waiting wouldn't make him any more ready.

So he just wrapped his lips around the barrel.

Flicked the safety off.

The gun felt cold in his mouth. Not a nice experience.

Pulled the trigger. Didn't hear the bang.

B142 - HARUN KEMAL - DECEASED