A Suicide Letter

By Binhad Nurrohmat

My dear friends, it's already late as I put my pen to paper. There are no stars nor moon in the sky. There seems to be no spirit inside me and I don't know what to do except waste my time or do foolish things.

I have turned off the TV set that only showed foreign people fighting or things that are supposed to make us horny. I have grown tired of reading. The neatly arranged books on the shelves used to keep me company when loneliness struck, but now they are only boring pieces of paper. Despite my eagerness to have a friend to talk to, I feel it would be improper to phone my friends at this time of night just to confide in them. I don't want to bother other people's lives at night.

I have chosen to make it through the night, shouldering my own burden and sufferings without bothering others but myself.

My happiness may be wandering somewhere. My dear friends, I really felt like killing myself one night in March when I felt it would be bliss to die, leaving this world and its contents as well as my simple memories behind. But tonight is the right time for me to depart from this world.

At this very moment I have lost my love of this world and nobody knows about my intention to end my life, so I can die peacefully in the still of the night. People are now fast asleep and tomorrow they will find my stiff body and shed their tears, feeling sorry. Perhaps some would say in their hearts, "You're a damned fool ... Many people struggle to live a long life but you have taken your own life painfully and disgracefully."

My dear friends, killing oneself hurts, doesn't it? Can you imagine slitting your own throat with a sharp broad machete? Can you feel the machete cutting deeper and deeper, going inch by inch into your skin, veins and arteries, flesh and down to your throat before it finally gets stuck in the bone behind your throat?

A feeling of fear crept over me. I suddenly felt foolish for wanting to kill myself tonight. I immediately abandoned the idea of killing myself when I glanced at the innocent, hopeful face of my child who is fast asleep beside his mom. I start to imagine how wonderful it will be if one day I see him rush towards me, hugging me warmly and calling me "dad".

I put the machete under a thick pillow. My dear friends, do I have to really abandon the idea of killing myself tonight?

I still remember vividly the tragic story of Vincent Van Gogh who ended his life sufferings by killing himself. It may have been his best choice to die a tragic death rather than being looked down upon and humiliated. His posthumous fame means nothing for his remains which have turned to dust. What is fame if the bearer has long been a dead body. If the fame had come when he was still alive, it would have prolonged his life.

I remember Ernest Hemingway who also committed suicide. His wife found a pile of his works of arts in a trash can after he had killed himself. Perhaps, if Hemingway had been satisfied with his own works, he could have lived longer and enjoyed his fame.

My dear friends, why have so many celebrated people committed suicide?

I believe that committing suicide is a serious business. I don't think great people like Van Gogh and Hemingway killed themselves only for the sake of amusing themselves. They were not foolish. Committing suicide was a huge choice in their lives. You may despise people who have committed suicide but you must not hate their guts for committing the act.

Isn't living and dying the right of each human being? Dear friends, you must not hate me just because I am not happy with my life. Tonight seems to be dragging terribly slowly and so tedious, confining me in a hollow box. I am not sure if this night is going to end and turn into a shiny, happy morning that can relieve me of my suffering and enable me to suppress the urge to commit suicide.

Committing suicide must be very painful. But, dear friends, it doesn't take long. I will feel pain and go into convulsions for a while before death comes, and then it is all over. I suddenly hate myself for being torn between killing myself and hanging to life. Dear friends, if I should die tonight, just take this letter as a farewell note. Forever.

Pondering my destiny, I take my machete from behind the pillow, brandishing it. Slowly I grip the handle. I can see the reflection of my face on the blade which shines under the bulb. My blood rushes all over my body. Sitting before a big mirror, I feel my neck hot with sweat. I wipe it up and down again and again. I feel my Adam's apple go up and down beneath my sweating palm.

Dear friends, I suddenly recall when my mom asked me to slaughter a chicken while my dad was away. "Boys must be brave and must not fear the sight of blood," my mom said, giving me a newly sharpened kitchen knife. With dexterity, my mom held the chicken legs and wings by a trash hole in the corner of the back yard. The chicken yelped noisily but was powerless.

I held the head and the neck. "Come on, do it!, you mustn't be scared of blood, my son." I pinched the skin of the chicken neck and the windpipe. I placed and pressed the sharp blade on the base of its neck. "Come on, do it!" snapped my mom. Blood spurted out of the slit.

A cut that must have been painful. My hands were smeared with blood. "Mom, this is cruel. Next time just buy one slaughtered from the market, it's more practical." My mom gave me a sharp gaze.

"My son, you're a boy, you must be bold; The chickens in the market are slaughtered by women. Can you tell the difference between a chicken slaughtered by a woman or a man?"

I never answered the question. "I am not proud of having a son who is scared of slaughtering a chicken."

I saw mom in tears in the corner of the kitchen chopping the chicken. But I know now there is no difference between chickens slaughtered by a man or a woman. They are all just slaughtered chickens.

Mom misjudged me, dear friends. Tonight I have laid a machete on my own neck, not on a chickens. I am going to slaughter myself. A simple swaying movement will finish off my life in this world. The gaping cut in my neck will be red, wet with blood. And the machete will fall from my grip down to the ground. The clinking sound from metal hitting the cemented floor will break the still of the night. Clink.

Dear friends, yes, tonight is the right time for me to kill myself. My life is hopeless. You know how painful it is for me to live my life. My suffering is not over. Tonight is the climax of my pain, friends. You may say I'm foolish because I will commit suicide. Never mind. Everyone has their own choice.

You may resent me but don't resent my courage to opt for suicide tonight, rather than continuing my damned life and that hearing, before the next morning comes, a shameful verdict passed on me before so many eyes in the court room, landing me in prison until I'm old and weak.

What a lowly life one will have if one must die in prison as a corruptor! If you were in my shoes tonight, what would you decide?

I should have used the money I have acquired from corruption to lead a luxurious and happy life. I did not have to work hard for years. My wife and my children could have a nice life and enjoy everything they would need. My children do not have to go to school here. Abroad. Yes, there are more suitable schools for them abroad and I surely would be able to afford their schooling.

If I was a great lover, I could keep beautiful mistresses to serve me anytime I need them. They must be young and beautiful. Ah, women would always be desirous of sleeping with me because of my fat wallet. Believe me, friends, sexual desire can be bought although it is costly.

I don't have to have children from my mistresses. They are only playthings for me to satisfy my lust. We must beget children only from a decent woman so that later they will keep our self- respect. This explains why I've got married to a decent woman.

Friends, I see no need to cover up my cleverness and slyness in siphoning off my office's money. Even tonight I failed to find a way to duck the charges although I have lied many times. The evidence may embarrass me if I lie. Money, assets, my house will be confiscated. Where will my wife and children live?

Journalists will write a front-page story about me, accompanied by my photo. Just imagine, friends, what kind of person I am, suddenly a loser. Well, it is really unjust. I prefer to see my crime exposed when I am no longer alive so that I don't have to bear the punishment of this damned world, and also when my wife is dead and my children have become something abroad and do not have to bear the burden of shame before their peers.

I must die before tomorrow morning when some people in uniform will come to pick me up. Their faces ice-cold and accusing, they'll drag me out before my wife and my children. I'm still sitting before a large mirror, placing the machete on my neck and pressing it against the vein.

In the mirror I can see my child and my wife sound asleep, their faces calm and serene. Forgive me. Actually, with only one swift movement, my neck will be broken and open. Friends, if I do it this second, we will no longer meet each other on earth any more. I tremble upon seeing the shadow of my neck and the machete reflected in the mirror. There is no other time. More practical choices? None.

I am ready to press the machete harder against my neck. I feel the sharp metal ready to slice my neck. "If you die tonight, it's not because you are courageous, my son," I hear my mother say. I suddenly catch sight of the shadow of my mother on the mirror. "Mom, don't advise me anymore! Everyone is entitled to their own choice."

"No. It's not your choice, my son. You only feel pushed and compelled." I press the machete even more strongly against my neck. I have the energy to pull the weapon strongly to the side. But, my hand suddenly feels cold and stiff. I cannot move my hands.

Neither can I move the other parts of my body. I'm like a statue. I see the shadow of my mother reflected in the mirror. She is stroking my head. "Make your own choice, my child."

The next day I awake in front of the large mirror and the machete is lying on the floor. I feel my neck -- I'm not dead this morning. Then I hear the sound of a car in the yard and knocking on my door. I tremble and go pale in the face. I barely have time to tell the problems to my children and my wife and take leave of them, temporarily. Friends, must I pick up the machete from the floor?

2002

Translated by Faldy Rasyidie and Lie Hua