He pressed the blade on his wrist. There is nothing more jeery than a failed suicide. There's a certain glory in death, a grandeur -- think Cleopatra, or Brutus. But if you fail, you are marked for life. What a queer, what an idiot, why did he do it, pathological -- thousand mockeries, smiles, only half hidden whispers, pitiful glances. If he died there would atleast be a general round of tuttut, perhaps even a condemnation of society. If he lived, universal disapproval. Was life ever so dear?

Still the blade felt nice. Cold steel on bare skin. The sleeve rolled back. He could almost imagine himself in a dark alley, maybe in a foreign country. Someone chasing him. The long arm of the law maybe, or someone he had repudiated. He rubbed his thigh. The sudden friction ran a warmth through him. A frisson? Ya, the word sounded nice.

scio.