When I was only just 12 our lodger attempted suicide. I didn't find her but her friend did and in his infinite wisdom he asked me to sit with her whilst he waited outside to direct the ambulance (we lived at an unobvious address ie. house not visible from the road so he went to spot the ambulance).
It was dark, she had made her room very oppressive and untidy. She had vomited blood and there were loads of tablets everywhere. She was totally unresponsive and unconscious and I remember trying so very hard to elicit some kind of reaction from her.
I felt at the time I coped quite well. I was mature an unsensational about it. That night, though, my mum suggested a nice hot bath to help me sleep. I ran said hot bath and got into it. I relaxed in it for a while, enjoying it. I then went to wash my face. It didn't feel right and when I took my hands away from my face they were covered in blood. It was horrific and I will never forget how upsetting it was; it was a physical manifestation of the horror I'd witnessed earlier. The stress + the heat had given me an enormous nose bleed that didn't stop for ages.
I am 40 this year. I have not had a bath since that night. My best friend said I changed overnight from a positive person to a negative one and I fight to suppress that negativity every day now.
This girl luckily didn't kill herself but I still hate her for her selfishness. I am still hideously angry at her friend who misjudged how to handle the situation, although, in his defence it was dark and he probably weighed up the pros and cons of sending me down a long dark driveway on my own to flag down an ambulance versus being in my own home (forgetting the crux of the problem was in the home).
When I hear of suicides I always try to feel pity. Sometimes I do, but deep down always I feel seething rage at their selfishness.