Kurt was always a brooder; that's how I remember him six years ago. But without alcohol and possessing a firearm
I imagine he'd still be alive today. Suicide is 80% accessibility.
If my sister hadn't seen those pills laying around she wouldn't have tried the whole bottle. If Kurt had just stumbled in drunk (after being publicly
humiliated by a girl he liked) and simply passed out, things would've been fine. But no. There was his father's gun. And his favorite Corrosion of Conformity album. And his suicide note.
Always the father's gun.
My friend Bob got trashed one evening and found his father's gun. Dead four years now. Or like that fucking nut who lived out in the woods and drank and ended up shooting my cousin to death. I kept the news clipping of her death, like our mutual friend keeps a clipping of Kurt's obituary from the weekly column.
The "firewater" thing runs in my family. Dad has it. I imagine I do too, but I avoid alcohol on principle. I'd probably have
done myself in a long time ago were I provided immediate access to a gun and whiskey. Highly probable then, but not now.
I miss eating with Kurt at the Waffle House. I miss his trademark scowl and his deep booming voice and his too-rare and vigorous laughter. I miss his regular greeting to my sister, who is a striking and charming woman:
She: <all bubbly and singsong> "Hi Kuuuurt."
He: "Fuck you, Holly."
Guns and alcohol don't mix.