Author: Aglaée-Louise Stroun

Author: J. Seeger

[Content Warning: Suicide]

I gesture to the man on the bench. The pointless, albeit polite question ‘Do you  mind if I have a seat?’ He doesn’t respond. I sit, sliding down the contours of the bench. The  picture of contempt. It has been a considerably wet August, and the leaves have fallen  early this year. The smell of rotting plant matter is noxious, but it is a welcome distraction  from the cacophony of modern life. That smell. The tree to my left is an apple tree, its  brown decaying fruit is the most pungent. But there are other smells underneath, the smell  of rain on concrete, the smell of freshly cut grass. 

They say that apples contain trace amounts of cyanide. It’s not enough to kill you  unfortunately. I pondered about selectively breeding apples for higher cyanide content. I would ruminate on these problems as a child.  Amusing myself with how different Sleeping Beauty would be if the apple on the windowsill was the one designed to kill. A ‘Red Deathlicious’. Bad joke”  

Today I wonder if I could feed this poisoned fruit to the man next to me. He is a  businessman, grey suit, blue shirt, top button undone, a spotted tie loosely knotted, he  was drinking a beer. I suppose he didn’t want to go home just yet, he had a wedding band  on his left ring finger. He glances down at it every now and again. I ask myself what his reaction would be if I handed him an apple, how quickly he would bite into it. Cyanide works by inhibiting the  process which makes energy in your cells. It makes you tired, sleepy. You lose coordination and you become dizzy. Your heart rate will slow down. Beat by beat, a slow  creep closer to death. I ponder what would happen if I could eat that poisoned apple. It’s late. I need to sleep. A bench is as good as any bed. 

I wake up just before dawn. My phone is ringing. It’s my secretary. Faithful Jane,  she’s always been on my side. She’s asking me where I am. I tell her I’m at home. I am lying. The bench is still under me. I get up and start walking, she reminds me the car will pick me  up in one hour, she hangs up. Jane is eight years younger than me, but treats me like it’s  the other way around. She looks after me well, in another life we would have been married  by now. My walk to the apartment is short, I am there in seven minutes. I open my door, I  take off my shoes and I carry them to the elevator. My feet are sore. I press the button and  the brushed metal doors open immediately. The elevator’s interior is made of floor to  ceiling mirrors. It makes me feel vulnerable. My shoulders arched forward, the weight  of the world shrugged off. I ask the elevator for the penthouse. The door opens into my  living area and I drop my shoes. My Artificial Intelligence calls my name.“John”, it says. It  asks me if I want some coffee. I tell it to get ready for after my shower. 

My apartment is open plan. My furniture is bespoke, uncomfortable. This apartment  is the tallest building in the city of Geneva, Switzerland. I live on the highest floor. Every  wall is made of glass, at night, I flip a switch and an electric current passes through each pane. The microscopic pigments embedded throughout the glass expand and then my  window on the world closes. The shower is in the corner of the apartment. I take my  clothes off and step in. The AI preheated the water. The water is recycled from the day  before. The rain that filled my nostrils now washes the scum off my back. I hope the next  person who lives here can appreciate the hidden simplistic beauty of this place. I don’t. I’m dressed in my newest suit. I haven’t picked my tie yet. Jane will do that for me. I can see the large armoured car driving down the road, it’s for me. Jane rings. I tell her I’m coming down. I look towards the lake and the mountains. The sun has risen enough for it to be light outside now, the orange glow it casts is at its peak. The lake is a particularly  wholesome sight, in a way the lake is like its own celestial body, the fires of our nearest 

star, captured in the waters of the lake, the two life giving powers in our universe, one  caught in the reflection of the other. I take in that view for what I think will be the last time.  

The elevator is waiting for me. I walk in and look at the mirrors, the shower has  cleaned the superficial filth. But, I can still see the dirt in the cracks. The elevator doors  open and the car is waiting for me. Jane opens the door of the car. She is wearing a grey  suit and a maroon shirt. Her hair is tied back and she is wearing little make-up. She looks  nice. I get in and she climbs in behind me. We drive to the parliament building for my trial. I am hurried into the building out of view of cameras and journalists. This building used to  be home of the United Nations. It is now home to the Pan-Eurasian Coalition, which I was  in charge of. Funny how things change. I am taken to my office, there is a balcony. I take Jane with me, the doors are locked and my guards wait outside. I find it odd that they gave me guards. These people are sentencing me to death. Yet they don’t want the  millions, billions, of other men and women to do it for them. Jesus once said; let he who is  without sin cast the first stone. He gestured to a baited crowd, armed with rocks, ready to  stone an adulterer to death. Stupid story.  

Jane gives me a hug, and passes me my package, I thank her, open the package  and place its contents in the inside pocket of my suit. Faithful Jane. She says she will miss  me. I tell her I have a plan. I don’t know if it will work. The trial is a mere formality. I have  one witness left, one man who can defend me. He will speak for me, for when all is said  and done, he and only he knows the truth.There’s a knock at the door. It’s time. 

I am guided slowly into the awaiting chamber. This is where I make my last  defence, the final formality of the long drawn out game of hangman. I pray, with its loosest  meaning, that my witness will be here. I am first in the chamber, the auditorium. I am taken  to my seat. It is a cheap plastic chair with metal legs. I prefer my bench. The chair is hidden by four wooden panels of highly polished dark oak. They are ornate in structure and reflect the rest of the building, all except for my cold plastic chair. This is the cell they made me. The wall behind me is adorned by the flag of the PEC, a blue background with red, blue, yellow, green and black stripes, they are at a subtle angle, and run from top to bottom down the middle of the flag. They represent all the colours of our coalition countries, just like the old Olympic Rings. I hate it, it’s ugly. Underneath are smaller versions of the flags belonging to each member state. The ceiling is a curved dome of glass where citizens, voyeurs, can watch the dismantling of democracy and due process. It’s closed today, the cameras will see everything though live TV. In front of me are rows of seats and desks, where each country’s representatives will sit. Independent witnesses and token journalists. There are 300 seats, each will be filled. One more row of seats, in between me and the madding crowd. I still have my package. The row of seats are for the judges. A jolly band of sinners, ready to cast their stones. I sit and close my eyes and remember the scent of rotting apples. My eyes are shut as the auditorium fills, slowly.  It is nine in the morning before the trial starts. Everyone is in place and I open my eyes. 

They hear my defence. There are jeers when I mention the good work I’ve done,  the peace wrought upon the world. I’m buying myself time. They tell me to sit and then I’m  questioned, again. What good it will do. I reach into the inside pocket and feel its cold  metal. I pull the hammer and feel a satisfying thud as the bullet is loaded into the chamber.  There is a pause as the trial is adjourned for lunch. This is potentially my last meal, I am  asked what I want. I ask for an apple. The auditorium fills and I have only eaten one bite. I  ask the jury for one last plea. They grant my request.

“I know. I know you don’t believe me. This trial is what you wanted though, friends.” I look  into the camera which hovers by my face. “I know this offers no solace to you today, but I  am sorry for the pain you think I caused.” I look towards the jury and stand up. “You  believe that I did this, you believe you found your smoking gun, and with the strike of  hammer on gavel you will waft away the fumes. You are guilty. You pulled the trigger, it is  your bullet and yours alone which was fired.” I sit down heavily and there is a screech as the chair slides back slightly. I look up to the crowd. “I am no murderer.” I pause, a breather, they think it is for dramatic effect, I reach into my pocket. My choice was justified. I put my hand on the grip and rest my finger on the trigger. No one can see the weapon as I hold it by my side. “Comrades…” There is a cry from a representative of Canada, he tells me I am a murderer, I have the blood of Millions on my hands. He is removed promptly. I  am sad he will miss the show. “…your sacrifice was not in vain.” Long pause, I picture  myself on the bench. The head judge asks me if I have anything left to say, he is disgruntled, he raises my hammer. I open my mouth as I stand but I’m stopped. The gavel falls from the judges hand. Front row seats. My witness is here. His bony hand rests on my right shoulder. I raise my left hand, and point the gun to my temple. The Ruger GP100, a relic. There is a scream. The cameras rush to focus on my friend. I know they see him. “My name is John Seeger and I have a rendezvous with death.” I pull the trigger. The crowd goes wild.