Girl, Interrupted From The Death of H. Mildew

I did not kill Herman Mildew because I was trying to kill myself.
Honestly, Detective, I believe this interview, interrogation, chitchat, whatever you would like to call it, is completely unnecessary. Furthermore, it is not only a waste of your time and funds, but a waste of mine as well. You see, I am sick,
Detective. And here, in this very psychiatric hospital, I am now trying to heal after my failed suicide attempt.

Part of your routine, oh yes.

Just to cross me off the list.

Of course.

Well, where to begin? Perhaps with my relationship to the lovely Mr. Mildew. Yes, he was my editor, and yes, I hated him dearly. He hated me just as well. Thought my work was a product of hallucinogens, LSD fads from the 1980s, pure insanity. Believed I was on a slew of different drugs, a paranoid schizoid, that was his favorite term for me. Tried to enroll me in Narcotics Anonymous one time. I am not a drug addict, Detective, but rather a nonconformist, I see the world through different convex lenses that warps and distorts the very images. I am a individual and he hated me for it.  He had trouble accepting me for who I really was. My stories had too much angst, too much of an intellectual depth, teenagers my age wouldn't want to read this if it was the last book they'd ever have. They'd rather use it for firewood. Another fabulous comment from my affectionate and tender editor. My prose didn't relate to the teen population, no ludicrous love triangles, not enough vampires making love with werewolves, no girls fighting for hunger in a dystopian set of games, it just didn't work.  Herman Mildew hated me and thus, I hated him. However, Detective, that doesn't mean I murdered him. Believe me, I would have loved to stab him in the back and have him scream "Et tu, Brute?" like the famous Caesar, have him crushed in a meat grinder, lit on fire in front of me and to watch him burn to a crisp, but it was not to be. I will give the gentleman who finally retired the troll a pat on the back.

I was focusing more of my energy last night summing up the courage to cram fifty aspirin down my throat, and finally wash it down with half a bottle of good old Jack Daniels whiskey from the corner store. At the same time dear Herman was heaving for his last breaths, blood pouring crimson out from underneath that horrible, bloated potbelly, I was waiting for the alcohol to settle. It left a brilliant trail of fire down my throat, eased my suffering if only for a little while. By the time Herman was pronounced dead, the "kind" neighbor from next door had already found me and called 911. Bastard. If only he could have left me to die in peace.  When you, Detective and your other bumbling members of the police force had arrived on scene, I was hauled into the emergency room, a stomach pump crammed down so far down my throat I could feel it moving around in my esophagus. Fifty disintegrated aspirin mixed with a slew of discolored liquids, along with the remnants of my dinner, all over the hospital floor. And by the time you had even began to consider me as a suspect in his murder, I was here, in this very room, with this stupid bracelet on my wrist and my first meeting with my shrink in an hour.

Is this hard for you to believe, Detective? Unlike some of the other suspects on your list, I have an abundance of witnesses who will confirm where I was at any specific time window. Ask the doctors in the emergency room who fed me the stomach pump, the paramedics who brought me in last night within an inch of my pitiful life. Ask my psychiatrist, a lovely chap by the name of Melvin, ask him where I was yesterday evening at 7:29 PM. My psychoanalyst, Dr. Jodi Ann Fung, a wonderfully petite Asian woman from Taiwan, I believe. Or the other patients at this place. They saw me last night, stuck their demented little heads out of their rooms and watched me roll right in through the front doors at about 8: 49 PM, an unconscious and crumpled figure, sedated and without the will to live.

Detective, I would have liked to kill Herman Mildew, but alas, I was too focused on killing myself.