In hindsight, he probably should've realized that offing himself wasn't going to work. That it was going to bring new baggage to his life, more baggage to deal with, baggage that brought physical evidence that he couldn't hide from his brothers, but he had reached his breaking point.
It took a couple of shots of vodka to be able to get out of bed, to be able to function, go through the system smoothly, make sure that his brothers didn't notice him falling apart. Plaster the smile on his face all he wanted, but the smile never reached his eyes, a mechanical smile. The only emotion he ever felt was hopelessness; in its purity.
Originally, he had tried to convince himself that suicide was the bravest act someone could pull off. Offing yourself truly required conviction, motivation, and true self loathing. Not anyone could bring a gun to their temple, swallow a bit of cyanide, throw themselves into a river; no it required a special type of person. Someone who had enough determination to die. Someone who could climb a tree, wrap a chain around their neck and jump, no hesitation, no questions asked. Clean up on aisle four, Juice is hanging by a thread.
In hindsight, he should've realized that he going to fuck this up, in one way or another and the telltale bruise on the side of the neck is all he has to show for that. There was no way he could've gone out that easily, with no problems. Sons die bloody, not by cowardice.