Rivulets of raindrops seeped slowly into his already room-temperature bowl of wonton soup that he got down from Madame Chi’s, diluting it bit by bit. But to him, it didn’t matter much. He barely even knew what the wontons from Madame Chi’s were made out of. He would have guessed it were rat or cat, but later he would find out that they were that of the flesh from a rhesus monkey the Madame herself caught a few weeks ago.

Ever since the impetuous growth of yamana roots along the Tanah jungles towards his South, the rhesus tribe couldn’t resist themselves and they too have come along, intoxicated by the bewitching seductions of the yamana root.

It’s been almost a month since Panyck tasted salt, so this was a treat for his tastebuds. He realised himself indulging in his soup a little too much. Even what seemed like a storm started brewing above him didn’t faze him. After having been roleplaying as someone he didn’t want to be any more for the last 16 hours, he just wanted to have a little treat to himself. He snickered at the thought that this measly bowl of soup would mean everything in an existence as forlorn and miserable as his.

The drizzle picked up slowly. He thought maybe he should get back into his house. After all, he knew at the back of his mind that this salty broth would be perhaps his last meal. He looked up, calm, and allowed the raindrops to patter gently onto his forehead and then, he’d let them slowly trickle down his face. But looking calm was only a façade. Not too much deeper down, a surge of anxiety demons were bellowing. He could feel them crawling up from his stomach and digging their honed, serrated claws into the sides of his throat. With each growing second, it gets harder to breathe. A minute more and you would be able to see their horns protrude from his mouth. He started to worry about how the sides of his mouth would feel.

Reaching up from his chopsticks, he slowly fingered his lips and fanned them out towards the sides. Synthetic skin feels dry to the touch. The more he caressed his face, the more he thought of what it meant to be Yi’hua. His hands move towards his neck, stroking the sides and then gently wrapping them tighter around his neck, gripping, choking himself. He rubbed his fingers along where the carotid arteries should be, but all he felt were biosynthetic collagen tubes under his skin, pumping his lifeforce liquid throughout his body.

The chopsticks clinked against the side of the empty Chinese porcelain bowl. Panyck raised his right hand towards his face once more, this time, determined. He fanned out his fingers and once again, massaged the sides of his neck, searching for the life within him. He’d never imagine he’d go out of existence this way, a coward’s way he always told himself, but today, he knew he was at his limit. He was certain this was the case as for the past few months, he dreamt of nothing but darkness. He knew once you stopped dreaming was when the lifeforce liquid was running low, and your machine heart had stopped producing the happy chemicals to keep your human side sane. He had recognised the symptoms with other Yi’hua he had met throughout his life – his sister for one, had left a huge scar in his core memories.

This is it, he assured himself. He will be the one who will deliver the coup de grace, and nobody will even stop him. That is what life as an alpha-stage experiment will do to you. Once, he was important, and now, he’s nothing but spare metal parts for recycling. Fuck it, let’s not waste any more time. One swift action and it’s all over. His fingers wrapped tighter around his neck. His fingers were now under those empty biosynthetic collage tubes.

Fun fact: Suicide statistics are more than likely to be an under-estimate. The real number being more than a million people pulling the plug on themselves each year. In such a large sea of numbers, why then should the death of an Yi'hua matter?

Ironically, in what he knew were his final moments, his mind flooded with “what-if’s” and thoughts of fate. He thought about free will and religion and how he had fit into society. He thought about all the things he would consume if he were to live a life devoid of natural-synthetic happy chemicals—music, film, fashion, more of Madame Chi’s wonton soup. He thought about all the future discoveries that he would miss. He thought about all the books he wouldn’t be able to read – all the news, good, bad, horrific, destitute. And just like that, his grip tightened, his breath paused, and his eyes flared.