When he was 23, Andy's mother committed suicide. Not with the rest of her suicide cult, though. The particular poison the leaders of her group had chosen didn't form a solution with iced tea. Its molecules were hydrophobic and sank to the bottom of the jug. They poured the tea into small cups in reverse order of indoctrination, making Susan one of the first to have her's dispensed. Then they drank in the opposite order. When their leader collapsed onto the floor, his deacons barely flinched. No one rushed to his aid. The other leaders followed soon thereafter. Susan was only halfway through her glass; she was always a slow drinker. She was also not that naive. But she thought, "Fuck it," and drank it down. When half an hour later the four newest recruits were still sitting in their chairs looking at each other, she took in the scene, and looking down at the bodies all over the floor said, "Shit, I can't do anything right."
Not dead, not willing to go to jail, she called 911. Five minutes later she calmly let the cops in. Ten minutes after that she was explaining everything to an overly nice, young detective. Six hours later she was in the intake room of the closest mental institution.