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.