The first thing that struck me in his story, and probably the most important, was the panicked regret he felt the instant he was clear of the rail.
The other thing that strikes me, for others, and maybe with a hope of comfort for myself, was how those who've attempted (or committed) suicide so often regret, once it's usually too late, hurting the people they love. Did my dad feel that way, in that fleeting moment between when he pulled the trigger and when the bullet irreparably destroyed his brain?
For that matter, did he love me?
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