Only a tiny part of him even considered trying to stop. The rest relished it: the first bitter swallow in the morning, the ensuing warm glow in the gut. A few more drinks and, your pain numbed, you rose to a pleasant pitch; everyone loved you and you delighted yourself. Later, when night came, you found yourself swallowing more and more of the stuff, stifling the thoughts that bounced up like bodies in a roiling ocean, swallowing more and more until consciousness dimmed and faded, an oil lamp being turned down and extinguished.

Extinguished. A fun word to say, when your lips were thick and clumsy. You could laugh at yourself then, at least for a minute, before the urge struck you again.

It has occurred to you: pillowcase over your head, thick rope around your neck. You’ve gauged different beams, various doorways, in the house, since arriving here a week ago. Sort of an exercise of curiosity, a project. Certain things—the transom over the pantry door, the iron curtain rod in the parlor—you know would not be strong enough to hold you. You’ve settled on the banister as the best option, on tying one end of the rope around the thick post at the top of the stairs and the other around your neck, and hoisting yourself over, letting yourself drop. You’ve heard a tale of your father finding an old vet of the Great War who’d done himself in that way, up in Stone Harbor one summer, over the banister in his house, and you think now it has a certain panache. A distinguishing extinguishing. Something to remember me by. A gun would be quicker, of course, and require less planning, but you worry. With your luck, you’d be like that guy you saw on the hospital ship off Saipan, shot through the head, bleeding out both ears, eyes open wide and blinking, unable to move or speak. The doctors whispering he’d live a long life, never again walking or talking.

The thing is: You’re alone. Alone enough that it echoes in your head. The first time in years you’ve not surrounded yourself with chattering friends, hovering nurses or family; you’re actually allowing the aloneness to echo through the empty house. A relief, in some ways; in others, a terror, as you remember the things you’ve done, the things your family would banish you for, if they knew of them.

In any case, the option has occurred to you.

The thing is: You’re a goddamn monster.

You relished the killing. Not the killing you saw—the killing you did.