I suppose the media would have liked to imagine the suicide as dramatic, a jewel-encrusted dagger plunged through an unbeating heart, a bloodstained note (written in theatrical language and black ink - cursive writing of course) clutched in a cold fist, expensive wrings still embedded in lifeless fingers, wrists neatly slit for good measure. They probably would have wrote ten-page stories, with the essential pull-out calender of winter-suicide-fashion-pics, long, willowy black-haired dead bodies, clad in black silk gowns ("Hell is a ball-gown event Darling!").
Instead there was a short one-page article about a young girl overdosing, most of it spent complaining, lying about youth-suicides being easy to prevent, saying that it was her fault, that she was weak. She was stronger, braver than the journalists who wrote that trash.
Don't you love public appeal? Sarastic voice.