This was always going to happen.
She's been dead since the beginning.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
Who nevermore would come again.

She now saw life as an open wound. A shallow promise. A dark thing that should have loved her but instead tried to drown her.

“Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now."

“I saw her die without fulfilling her dreams and I knew that my time was now or maybe never,

That dichotomy between who she was and who she thought she should be was what really killed her.

To wait for life is the pathway to death.

And then she saw, and was instantly destroyed in a way that would insist upon her living.

She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death.

But death was her curse and her gift, and death had been her good friend these long, long years.

Death had to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging her along to the bitter end of the miserable existence she'd made for herself. They never even knew what she did die of. Some spoke of a chill. But the truth was that she died from poverty, from the filth and the weariness of her wretched life.

All sense of reality had gone out of her life; she had abandoned herself to fate, and awaited the consequences with indifference.