You might ask, why did she kill herself?

To this, I offer three corrections:

a) The sentence should read as you might ask, why did he kill
himself?
b) Secondly, the sentence should be changed to you might ask,
why didnt he kill himself?
c) Thirdly, the question should not be posed in the first place. I feel
no need to justify my actions.
Yet, for the ones who are sentimental in nature I can only offer
slight comfort in the fact that no one is at fault. Ladies and
Gentlemen of the jury, I present to you a disturbed, suicidal,
deranged and destructive child, (complete with a bow for your
viewing pleasure). I ask you, as jurors, would you like to have this
creature roam this innocent land of ours?
Objection. Leading question, your honor.
Denied.
Oh, do you hear the distant rhythm? That was the sound of my
heart, slowing down to a 3/4th tempo. Cue the cello. And now the
violins. This is the symphony of my life.
Now that Im dead, Im venerated. I am romanticized. Now I am
clever, bright and destined for a luminous future. My
metamorphism is characterized by my death; my death changes me
to something I am not. I was not clever and I was not destined for a
great future. My world was collapsing around me.
Is that why I killed myself? Is it because I lost control?
Now, dont think Id let the main conflict out in the open in merely
the first page, dear reader. Let me first set the setting, the main
character, the lovable and quirky sidekick and of course -the villain.
The hero of the story is not me. Rather, it is an object. I say an
object because it was unanimated. It sat there apathetically,
without emotion. It did what it was told and stared at light
frequencies. It woke up at six, went through the motions and then
cried at the comfort of their pillow. It woke up the next day, did the
same thing again. It was a machine, a vile, despicable machine.
Oh, how fun was it when the villain came over and used it as his
skin puppet. All bloody and gory. He cut it up, sewed him back up
and then threw it from the tallest building. Yet, the hero let him do

it. The hero was in love with the villain, you see. The lifeless blood
bag sprang to life and laid its insides on the feet of the villain.
The villain, you see, he had a mind of his own. He had no
attachment, but he was bloody brilliant. He made me into what I
was. He carved