For the rest of the day, Randy tried reconciling that thought with his own personality.
Did he really want to kill himself?
Had he really wanted to kill himself for a long time?
Impossible. He hadn’t been around long enough. Suicide wasn’t a part of his makeup. He was little more than a machine, with some human add-ons.
After shuffling out of the cafeteria, Randy spent some time in a common area. The guards let him and the rest outside for a little while. It was cold, though Randy didn’t care.
Eventually he was let back inside. All the prisoners ended up in their cells, Randy included.
He didn’t notice how late it became — not intellectually, at least. He was too preoccupied with the thoughts.
Still, he felt the night. It would’ve been impossible not to. Laying in his bunk — below the bunkmate whose name he hadn’t paid attention to — he felt alone.
He wondered if he wanted to kill himself.
Yes, came the response. A voice in his head. But it wasn’t his voice.
“Why?” he whispered aloud.
Your father left you. He never came back.
“I don’t have a father.”
Aren’t you tired of fighting? the voice asked.
The question seemed so dumb to him. Not worth of a vocal response. He closed his eyes. He doubted that the voice would be able to bother him much, after asking such a goddamned stupid question.
“Fighting is living,” he mumbled. “Living is fighting.”
He drifted to sleep, a smile on his face.