He took a last breath and stepped off the chair. The rope went taught and he bounced a bit. He heard a snap, but it was partially to be expected. Soon it wouldn’t matter.

13 hours later he still hung there in the attic. The recoil had broken his neck, but now his head was lolled at such an angle that he was still able to breath. He tried his damnedest to get the chair back, but it was no use. He couldn’t move an inch.

7 hours later still, and he hung there dripping with sweat in the hot morning. He had changed his mind, he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. But it was futile. He tried to call for help, but only the faintest whisper came.

He wept then. Wept like he hadn’t in years. Like he never would again.