“If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it.”
Cal seemed pleased. “I've often thought of that. I'd blow my brains out with a gun.”
I was disappointed. It was just like a man to do it with a gun. A fat chance I had of laying my hands on a gun. And even if I did, I wouldn't have a clue as to what part of me to shoot at.
I'd already read in the papers about people who'd tried to shoot themselves, only ended up shooting an important nerve and getting paralyzed, or blasting their face off, but being saved, by surgeons and a sort of miracle, from dying out right.
The risks of a gun seemed great. “What kind of a gun?”
Sylvia Plath - The Bell Jar (:175)
