by Tom Hunt
Seventeen months after my brother-in-law put a bullet through his brain, I found myself standing atop the highest cliff on the south coast of England, wondering what it would be like to jump. Inland, sheep and cows grazed on hills dotted yellow with cowslips. Crows speckled red slate cottage roofs and strips of plowed earth. Below, the channel sheared the last of the hills into jagged cliffs flecked with flint. A fierce wind blew from the west. It was the edge of England, but it felt like the edge of the world.
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