from Dan Robson of Sportsnet Magazine, He didn’t choose the bullets. Just grabbed the first ones he saw—.22 short, as opposed to the .22 longs that sat nearby. He fires them out, one by one. He doesn’t keep track of the shots. His head is lost in repeating thoughts, swirling endlessly: “I can’t go on. Can’t do this anymore.” He can’t escape the constant hum of his anxiety. “Can’t get out of my head. Can’t turn it off.” His tanned face, rugged and square, is red and wet with tears.
The pills don’t help. Haven’t for a while. Just seem to make things worse. And the more he pops, the further he slips into that place where reason dies. The booze just cranks up the hum.
There is no note; no poetry here. No tidy ending for last goodbyes. He didn’t plan to die—not today, anyway. Didn’t wake up feeling that this, finally, would be it. As easy, as quick as the bullets in that gun—click by click, one by one—a trigger tug away from being gone.
He sits down on a stool behind the sh