Aki was mad. Had he been able to observe himself, he would have described himself as furious. And, truth to tell, Aki was not given to exaggeration. He was torn between an uncontrollable urge to work himself up to let his rage carry him through the distance and complete what he knew, though for only a fleeting instant, was the right and the just thing to do, and an inexplicable tug at his heart, an isolated yet indomitable force, that feverishly appealed to him to pause, if only for a moment, and take stock of the situation. For, Aki knew the value and weight of every moment, especially those few which really mattered.
What you destroyed, you couldn’t create; and what you created, you couldn’t destroy; which is not really a paradox, at least according to Aki. For, when you have destroyed something, you don’t and can’t remember how exactly you destroyed it, so you couldn’t create it again. And, when you have created something, you remember exactly how you created it, so you couldn’t destroy it ever. But, on the same logic, what you destroyed was what someone else had created, and hence that person could create it again. Therefore, to make what you have destroyed remain destroyed and impossible of resurrection, you must destroy the original creator as well. But if your act of destruction of the thing and its original creator were a consequence of pure design and will, then the act would be not just an act but also a piece of creation. To destroy this singular creation, you have to destroy it and its original creator.
One decisive moment came to be, and passed.
That is the simple story of Aki’s suicide.