Life is second-degree suffering.Suicide is first-degree suffering.
The weather was almost on fire outside, burning, bullying, and trying to kill everyone. I looked at him. He was weeping and murmuring hysterically over his dead son’s carcass. Vomiting didn't help much; at least useless toward someone’s death. Half of his head had been blown away by the pistol his Dad gave him. The father tried to convince himself that he didn't kill his own son, over and over again, crying and talking.
I felt the tension between literature and real life right there. You never know where your life story is going; you just don’t know. When a blind marriage ended in adultery, he didn't get it. When he kept seeing more prostitutes, he couldn't understand his yearning for more women. When he passed STD to his second wife and ruined his second marriage, depression and sense of guilt started. He tried to save it but couldn't. He tried to kill himself but failed, so he ended up handing the pistol to his son and walked out.
I didn't kill him! The father cried again. Who on earth would ever believe me?
It’s nothing about cultural shock or mental weakness really. Everything was about jumping between art, creativity, reality, love, hate, food, weather, family story, or travelling. I wouldn't doubt the sincere father love he showed him; just like I never doubted the deep hatred rooted in some problematic families.