Henry Killbride was supposed to have been posthumously famous. He was fixed on the idea of posterity.

After his literary breakthrough was penned that stormy night in Poughkeepsie, he devised a noose with duct tape and hanged himself from a naked pipe in his bathroom. The tape was the color of soot, or charcoal, or deeply tarnished silver. It snapped only seconds shy, allowing for a bruised skull from the rim of the toilet.

If only he had used a rope.

If only he had left the seat down.


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