![]() He speaks in a rasp deracinated of tone, as if those years cooking meth made pulp of his larynx and left him only a husk to tell his story. He has the midnight pallor of an addict who started young, and who - depending on the light - looks 16 or 60, the oldest-living millennial in southern Ohio. It’s his longest such stretch since he was 14. “I fucked my brain up bad that time - hadda learn to walk and talk again from scratch.” “They told me I was dead for seven minutes,” he says, worrying the milk-white scar on his wrist. He lanced the carotid artery and was gone before his forehead hit the floor. Rooster’s last attempt was a two-gram spike of fentanyl into his neck. He’d been blue for minutes when they summoned EMS they had to pump his stomach to revive him. (An old man hunting arrowheads cut his cold corpse down and pounded on his chest to bring him back.) There was the time he downed a bottle of Percocet in the bathroom of a trap house. There was the time he hanged himself from a tree by the river and swung there, counting heartbeats, till he died. How many ways can a man kill himself before the devil finally says, “Well done?” For Rooster, the answer is unknowable: His seven serious bids didn’t take.
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