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The man wanted to die by his own, not somebody elses, he was staring at the gun and knife laid out on the table before him. He couldn't decide between the two, and he desperately wanted to make a choice, he could feel the weight of the life he took bearing (right usage?) down on him like an iron anvil. His palms were wet and his eyes were glazed over with the agony and fear that he would be made to pay by others for that life. He didn't want to face external punishment, he wanted to take his own life into his hands do what he felt he had to do. Finally he made the choice and put the gun under his chin, the cold iron felt comforting against his fevered flesh, he pulled the trigger and entered the void of death.