While sitting at the dinner table in his kitchen, Chris Carpenter gazed out the window to his left. He stared in awe at the sky, taking in the view of what could have been the most beautiful sunset he had ever laid eyes on. The reds and oranges mingling with the yellows in the nightclub of the darkening sky, melting together like running paint down an artist’s canvas—all of which captured his attention for the one moment of mental clarity that he had experienced in months. His mind had been a world of confusion, holding the memories of pain and torment that he simply wanted to wish away. He rose from his chair and left the kitchen. As he made his way to his bedroom, he could hear the whispering laughter of death in every one of his footsteps. After entering his room, Chris made his way to the dresser his uncle had crafted for him a few years earlier. He opened the top drawer and slid his hand under a pile of white socks his mother had bleached to perfection. Underneath, he felt the cold sting of his escape—he pulled it out and stepped over to the bed.