| abstract
| - “What have I done? What have I got to my name that people would even consider me? Why was I allowed this life? Who am I that I should live and my comrades die? I am nothing but a grain of sand. These were great men, men who lived, loved, and fought for what they believed in. Me? I am a simple man who is content with nothing. I cannot even go a day without complaining about my ruined life”, Krill Mayth wrote in his journal. Krill was a short, stocky Alderaanian Human, his normally slick, golden brown hair frazzled from numerous nights without adequate sleep. Deep, black circles surrounded his glazed eyes. His old, tattered, and dirty clothes clung to his atrophying body. It had been months since he had cleaned them. Piles of papers cluttered his desk around him. His room reflected his desk; articles of clothing strung every which way and trash littered the floor. Empty beer cans collected on the ground against the scuffed wall beside his desk. Small, half-empty canisters labeled “Pain” in jerky handwriting were dispersed across the kitchen countertop behind him, while full bottles labeled “Sleep” in the same handwriting rested in the trash can beside. To his right, his bed remained unused. His sheets still lay stiff in the same position as when he last threw them off in the morning. Above his desk, black streaks marked the number of days since he shut himself off from the world. That day totaled seventy-five. A mercenary and soldier of Stark’s Commercial Combine, it had been nearly three years since he had been in combat. Krill suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder after witnessing the death of over half the platoon he belonged to, Platoon D-9. He still remembered the event vividly. Every night, he relived the horror and trauma he went through trying to escape the mountain range they were searching, hoping to find a way to the Republic army. He could hear the screams of his fellow soldiers trapped inside the mountain. With each heartbeat, he could still feel the vibrations of their pounding fists against the enclosed cavern mouth. Each night, his mind slowly sank further and further into insanity. Each night, he died just a little bit more. Krill’s work-assigned counselor had recommended that he write down his thoughts and dreams in a journal to be able to get them out of his mind. This would help him process the event and get rid of the torture he suffered from recalling the mission night after night. Krill longed for sleep, and restful sleep at that, again. He longed to lie down in his bed, close his eyes, and when he opened them, to find himself still in his one-room apartment in Aldera, the capital of Alderaan. However, Krill only complied to convince the advisor he was getting better, but the truth was—the journal merely enhanced his thoughts. It drowned him in fear, and suffocated him with anger. He could never truly get that night out of his head. Not by that means, anyway. Krill placed the writing utensil down on his desk and stared at his paper. He had written two pages thus far and could have kept going another five if his hand had not started hurting. The pain throbbed in his right wrist as his arm started twitching. He knew he had to stop for a moment, but he feared that if he did, he would lose his train of thought. He had to write. He had to get it out of his mind. He could not dwell on that night. He could not remember it anymore, though he knew it was useless. For nearly a year Krill had dealt with it. One year was enough. He had been doing this same thing over and over for nearly that long, and still expected a different result every time. As soon as he put his writing utensil to paper, he would lose control. His left arm started twitching. He felt a cold sweat setting in. His breathing hastened. His heartbeat quickened. Krill had to finish his train of thought. Quickly cracking his knuckles and neck, Krill picked up the writing utensil and put it back to his paper. Krill put the utensil down. He could not write anymore. He still had to get the thought out of his head, but he simply could not write anymore. His hand hurt too much, his body was too distracted. Krill kicked his chair back and stood up. He walked back to his kitchen, where dishes and aged food sat out, molding away. Sifting through various empty bottles on his counter, Krill finally found a couple pain pills. He threw two into his mouth and opened a can of beer to wash them down. Immediately, Krill started feeling better. Deep down, he knew the affects were merely psychosomatic, and he was not actually without pain—he just thought he was. The pills had lost their effectiveness months ago. As Krill stood in the kitchen, his mind wandered. He found himself back on the side of the mountain, walking into the cave his platoon entered. Krill’s breathing rate increased, only taking half breaths before exhaling. His fists clenched. His eyes widened. His apartment faded around him, the metallic walls melting away into the craggy walls of the cave. His flickering light burst, leaving Krill in darkness. He was alone and confused. He altered his gaze from one stone to the next, looking around him trying to figure out where he was. He heard a noise from behind him. Turning around, he saw his old platoon walking into the cave. He watched as the mission unfolded before his eyes. Suddenly, Krill let out a piercing scream, throwing the beer at the far wall. He snapped back to reality as the can burst on impact. He found himself still standing in the middle of his kitchen, still alive. He should have died that day with all those other far more able men who fought along side him in Platoon D-9, but instead he survived. His counselor tried to get him to believe it was because he was meant to do something great. Never had he heard as great a lie as that. He was not destined to do something great. He was not destined for anything. He got lucky. His arm started twitching again. Shaking the event from his mind, Krill went back to his desk. Looking at his journal, he knew he needed to finish his thought, but he could not remember where he had left off. He read the last line again: “Should I divulge?” It came back to him. He sat down and picked up the writing utensil. The twitch in his arm grew unbearable. Krill stood up, frustrated. He slammed the utensil down on the desk. He kicked the chair away from the desk, knocking it to the floor. He knew the reason he was twitching. He knew what he had to do to fix it. Stomping into the kitchen again and threw open the top drawer at the far end of the kitchen. Pushing a button at the bottom of the drawer, Krill watched as a small, concealed chamber opened up. Krill stared down at its contents. He glanced back over at his desk. “I wish I had never started.” Krill whispered to himself. Krill reached down and pulled out a transparent box. Within the box, there were two rows of fourteen cylinders; only four of them contained red and yellow fluids. Hidden within the box, a small injection needle rested between the two rows. Krill placed the box on the counter and reached in to grab the needle. He unscrewed the back and took out a cylinder containing a yellow ixetal cilona fluid, a powerful hallucinogen. Sliding the cylinder into the needle, Krill screwed the back lid on. Hesitating only a moment, Krill slammed the needle into his arm, activating the automatic injection mechanism. Within seconds, the serum entered his bloodstream. The room immediately brightened, vibrant shades of red, green, blue, and yellow splotching the walls and swirled around the room. Krill stumbled back to his desk, remembering he needed to finish his journal. His arm no longer twitching, he could finally write without interruption. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the utensil and began writing. Exhaustion overwhelmed Krill. He felt as if he could not write anymore. Figuring he had come to an unexpected conclusion in his thoughts, he was content with what he had written. Setting the utensil down gently, Krill folded his arms and placed them on his desk. Letting his head lay on the intersection of his wrists, Krill closed his eyes. Deep inside, he knew he wanted to get better, but something on the surface kept getting in the way. Since he could see no hope past his shortcomings, he willing gave into the lie that he could not do it. Fighting the truth became too exhausting. He wanted to end it the only way he knew how—giving up. Krill took a deep breath and breathed no more. He fell asleep and never woke up, finally finding the restful sleep he had been longing. At least, that is what he had convinced himself of what he longed.
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