Flash of metal. Thunder in my ears. ‘This is the five o’clock news.’ The radio, chirping merrily from the pine dresser laden with photographs (holidays, graduation, wedding); a pretty blue and pink plate; a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel’s, partially hidden by a birthday card. My head is killing me. My right wrist as well. The pain in my chest is scary. So, too, is the blood. I slump to the floor, soothed by the cold of the black slate. And I shake. Above me, on the wall, is a white house in Italy, studded with purple bougainvillea. A honeymoon memento. Can a marriage end in murder? Even if it’s already dead? That painting will be the last thing I see. But in my mind, I am reliving my life. So it’s true what they say about dying. The past comes back to go with you