‘Life wants to kill you, the world wants to burn you and everything else just ain’t caring’ the words endlessly circling his head, the incessant echo of a survivalist philosophy that did little to praise the joys of life. The joys of life… Happy family… Fulfilling job… Merry home… like any of that was reflected in the deep frown glued to Yovac’s world weary features, not that anyone cared to notice the Damocles swords hanging over his head with ever increasing imminence.
Most ‘useful people’; a term Yovac knew meant ‘happy arseholes that have no inclination of impending hell’ would just say “Ask for help, you need to trust more, believe in life, live in the moment” and all that bullshit spewed out by self help books. The problem was that Yovac had trusted and asked for help; believed life would help him, his reward; a case of clinical insanity and a predisposition for suicidal thoughts, something they neglected to put in the self-help books.
The energy pistol resting next to a bottle of neat vodka challenged him with morbid intent; but Yovac was too depressed to even drink the ready poured glass of clear liquid, harbouring its 40% proof distraction. An internal struggle tore throughout his disturbed mind, how many times had Yovac fought the same futile battle with his ever deteriorating fractured nature, stared down the barrel of his own desolation. No matter how Yovac got to the point or what event triggered it he was always faced with the same two choices, consisting of a neat little hole in the head and blissful nothingness, the other choice, living, even harder to comprehend in his threateningly negative state of mind.
Within the confines of his mental prison Yovac found it increasingly hard to give a damn about anything, even his own bloody survival, that fun filled thought provoking a grim smile, score one for the ‘hole in the head’ option, the energy pistol whispering sweet nothings like ‘It’ll be a lot less painful in the long term’ and ‘Just squeeze the trigger and its over’, the option to live failing to even register. For the first time in a small ice age the statue labelled ‘man staring at drink’ moved, as Yovac started counting his remaining friends, failing to progress beyond a single hand and even more damning, he didn’t even manage to raise every grubby digit, an exercise that was meant to reinforce his reason for living backfiring monumentally.
He suddenly felt the need to rapidly throw the contents of the glass down his throat; the less he tasted the vile poison the better, a grim flash of corrupted humour prompting a smile as he revelled in the potential irony of doing the mortal deed in the middle of the happiest place he could find, some kind of sick revenge on the ‘happy people’, very fitting given his increasingly warped sense of humour!
The day he met her was where it went downhill, and having taken a machete to the overgrown poison barbs of his emotional defences she asked him out, in hindsight it might have been easier to say no; rather than deal with the unseen crap storm such good intentions were destined to trigger, paving the road to hell! At the time things weren’t that bad and he was fairing quite well, living on the private colony ‘Omega First’ wasn’t the worse thing, not too bad a planet compared to the lifeless rocks he had found himself inhabiting in the past.
Having been born on a first generation spaceship, grown up in an environment that taught skill and worth over fluffy values like ‘social graces’ and ‘polite niceties’ Yovac had the unfortunate fate of been branded a ‘spacer’, half the people he met hid their wallets; the other half exploited his ‘talents’. He could fly ships better than any planet born pilot and shot straighter than most sharpshooters without trying; his home ship ‘The Viking’ even gave the inspiration for his Nordic name, although it had to be said Yovac’s pasty skinned slim figure betrayed the image his name evoked.
For a brief moment Yovac revelled in the perfection of her sure smile that had brought him ease, life’s assassins cast aside with the sound of her enticing tone, but inevitably he was dejectedly cast out of happiness by memories of the night she crushed him. The night in question, when she left him, was the first in a line of damning events, as in a darkly reflective mood he chose to remember only words and shapes, the fine point detail of that critical night would be too much for his fragile mind; the tool of his potential demise was tempting enough without Yovac offering it extra encouragement.