"Here's my offering, gloomy and hopeless. When fortune comes, you can't run from it," muttered Mr. Subagyo as he saw his patient, Hanif, arrive at his house for consultation.
Mr. Subagyo was a psychologist, and this patient of his was Hanif. A 36-year-old man, Hanif was deeply addicted to online gambling, a vice that had completely ruined his life.
Hanif came in looking weary, his eyes hollow, as if all the spark of life had left him. During the session, he poured out his heart, telling his story in a trembling voice.
"I still remember how furious my wife was when she caught me gambling online," Hanif confessed.
He stuttered as he admitted how foolish he had been as a husband. For an entire year, he had neglected his wife and two children. He hadn't even given them money for household needs.
That mistake only pushed his family further away. His two children were now sent off to an Islamic boarding school, while his wife worked overseas in Taiwan as a migrant worker just to cover their needs.
Hanif, on the other hand, could do nothing but curse his fate. His only possession left was the house he lived in, stripped bare of furniture. Everything else had been sold to fuel his desperate chase for money through gambling.
"And what about the advice I gave you last time?" asked Mr. Subagyo.
This was Hanif's second visit. He hoped to rebuild his life. The consultations were free, a service Mr. Subagyo offered to the poor. As a senior psychologist, he felt obligated to support the mental well-being of his community.
"Consult your problems for your mental health, there's always a solution. FREE!!!" — so read the banner outside Mr. Subagyo's house.
He advised Hanif to start working again, to face the future with his head held high. He encouraged him to reconnect with his neighbors, to restore color to his life.
According to Mr. Subagyo, the past could be regretted, but one must not drown in regret. Hanif had to rise, to restore his dignity and fight for his children's future, even if his marriage stood on the edge of collapse.
"I tried following your advice, sir, but it didn't work. My in-laws were furious when I visited my child at the boarding school," Hanif said through tears.
"I'm truly worthless, sir. I'm so ashamed of what I've done. My neighbors won't accept me either. They gossip, they exclude me. I feel like giving up," he sobbed.
"Honestly, I'm furious with our society too. When someone tries to change, instead of support, they get scorn. If I could, I'd love to teach them a lesson," said Mr. Subagyo.
"Hanif, if you want to give up, then surrender as a hero in the darkness," he continued in a grave tone.
"What do you mean, sir?" Hanif asked, wiping his tears.
"End your life. Leave behind a message for everyone that people who are broken don't need ridicule—they need support. Your death could change the way this ignorant society thinks," said Mr. Subagyo.
Hanif lowered his head, crying silently. "But I'm scared, sir," he whispered.
"What's scarier is living endlessly in humiliation until death eventually comes for you. Be a hero for those who share your fate," Subagyo pressed.
Hanif said nothing more. His sobbing faded, leaving behind a vacant stare.
"Summon your death soon, for to me, it is a blessing," thought Mr. Subagyo, a faint smile curling on his lips as he looked at Hanif.
"Pa! The man who came to consult yesterday, Mr. Hanif—he killed himself. He hanged himself in his kitchen," said Mahardika, Subagyo's son.
"Yes. I already knew this morning," replied Subagyo calmly.
"This is a day of mourning, Pa. Your patient is dead! And yet here you are, celebrating with a cake instead of paying respects," Mahardika snapped.
Annoyed, he watched his father casually enjoy the cake before him. "As a doctor, when a patient of mine dies, I'm devastated. Not like you, Pa," he said bitterly.
Subagyo looked at his only son with a blank expression. "Death deserves to be celebrated. It's a sign a person is freed from suffering," he said.
"Come with me, I'll show you what I mean," he added, rising to his feet.
They drove slowly through the crowded neighborhood near their housing complex, heading straight to Hanif's house. Neighbors were already gathered, abuzz with the tragedy.
"Mr. Subagyo! Thank you for coming," greeted the head of the neighborhood.
"I'll buy this house," said Subagyo casually.
"For what?" Mahardika whispered.
"It's fine. The money will go to Hanif's children. My assistant will handle the purchase," Subagyo explained.
"I'm very grateful, sir. The money will be such a huge help for his wife and children," said the neighborhood head gratefully.
"Was there anything unusual about his death?" asked Subagyo.
"No. But he left a note. When I read it, the people here and I felt guilty. We shouldn't have shunned him so harshly," the man said, his voice heavy with regret.
He showed them a photo of Hanif's note:
*"I regret my addiction to online gambling. I truly lost everything—my wealth, my wife, my children. I wanted to change for them, but never got the chance. All I received was ridicule and rejection, which cut me deeply.
Yes, my sins were shameful, but yours—especially my neighbors—are unforgivable. All I needed was support, not exile.
Now I choose to give up. Goodbye to this world. Forgive me, my beloved wife, Kinanti. Forgive me, my sons, Hanan and Hudan. Your father was a fool. Don't follow my path. May you live happily!
Farewell!"
The neighborhood head bowed his head in sorrow as he showed the photo. Mahardika, shaken, said nothing, the weight of Hanif's last words pressing heavily on him. Meanwhile, Subagyo smirked—quiet satisfaction glimmering inside.
"Why are you smiling, Pa?" asked Mahardika.
"Nothing. Just another thought," answered Subagyo.
"Why doesn't he grieve his own patient's death?" Mahardika wondered silently.