They're giving me the death penalty for killing myself and don't believe me when I say I'm not dead. They have the videos, the lawyer tells me. They have the voice recordings of how I cried. They even have the note, my confession, proof of premeditation. The case is clear-cut, the lawyer says. Don't worry, there's standards for this sort of thing. Two trials. One for guilt and one for death. The first time, they bring me up to the stand and ask me lots of questions about myself. Was I nice? Was I cruel? I'm sorry, I say, and the judge shakes his head. Objection. Sustained. They sit me back down. They parade around photos of the crime scene on blown-up posters. The angles are bad; I look like a toy, not a person, with the way they've arranged me over the bathroom floor tiles. The blood's still shiny. The jury cries at the photos. The reporters flash their cameras. Order, order. Objection, I say. Overruled, the judge say. The deliberation is short and the decision is unanimous. Guilty. Objection, I shout. I'm not dead. Overruled, the judge says. They're holding the second trial today. Same judge, same jury. They won't let me in; I have to watch it on TV. They bring you up to the stand. Did you do it? Yes. No further questions. They sit you back down. Objection, I scream at the screen. They're bringing out the gun. Objection. Overruled, you say. Cold metal against the skull. Objection. You pull the trigger.
