When they told her she’d be alright they meant stable. Even her favourite book whispered, through Daisy Buchanan’s rose-petal mouth, that the best thing a girl can be in this world was a fool. You had to be accepting to survive; you had to let things happen to you. Rather than let yourself happen to things. And jumping off the Brooklyn bridge was the latter – far too much of a hassle, of a statement. Even if it was neither, that’s what the small-production journalists would mould it into. Oh, these political statements, these hassles.
So instead of that she just let things happen to her. Much like a lab rat for life’s sick experiments, she took it all. That’s why they always said she died twice: first at twenty-two, weary from her graduation, and then again at eighty. Neither funeral was much hassle.