too sad to finish it...

On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide—it was Marythis time, and sleeping pills, like Therese—the two paramedics arrived at thehouse knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and thebeam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope. They got out ofthe EMS truck, as usual moving much too slowly in our opinion, and the fatone said under his breath, "This ain’t TV, folks, this is how fast we go." He was carrying the heavy respirator and cardiac unit past the bushes that hadgrown monstrous and over the erupting lawn, tame and immaculate thirteenmonths earlier when the trouble began. Cecilia, the youngest, only thirteen, had gone first, slitting her wrists like aStoic while taking a bath, and when they found her, afloat in her pink pool,with the yellow eyes of someone possessed and her small body giving off theodor of a mature woman, the paramedics had been so frightened by hertranquillity that they had stood mesmerized. But then Mrs. Lisbon lunged in,screaming, and the reality of the room reasserted itself: blood on the bath mat;Mr. Lisbon’s razor sunk in the toilet bowl, marbling the water. Theparamedics fetched Cecilia out of the warm water because it quickened thebleeding, and put a tourniquet on her arm. Her wet hair hung down her backand already her extremities were blue. She didn’t say a word, but when theyparted her hands they found the laminated picture of the Virgin Mary she heldagainst her budding chest. [...]The paramedics took Cecilia to Bon Secours Hospital on Kercheval andMaumee. In the emergency room Cecilia watched the attempt to save her lifewith an eerie detachment. Her yellow eyes didn’t blink, nor did she flinchwhen they stuck a needle in her arm. Dr. Armonson stitched up her wristwounds. Within five minutes of the transfusion he declared her out of danger.Chucking her under her chin, he said, "What are you doing here, honey?You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets."And it was then Cecilia gave orally what was to be her only form of suicidenote, and a useless one at that, because she was going to live: "Obviously,Doctor," she said, "you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.

(las virgenes suicidas- jeffrey eugenides)