I had recently overcome a terrible case of the geedis, as my father had always called any flu-type virus. Or in other words a nasty case of bronchitis. But on this particular day I had finally been able to talk. A miracle if there ever was one. Once I had found her in the kitchen, laying half on the linoleum and half on the hard wood that signaled the end of the kitchen and the beginning of the living room, my miracle of speech abandoned me. Althought, let me back up for a moment, because the moment I found her is not the moment that the smell, that disgusting aroma of rotten eggs, had taken a firm hold of my worst fears and shook me.

Let me back up to the moment and those following when I had half-skipped up the drive towards the front door to the little one-bedroom I shared with no one in-particular; except her. I remember distinctly having pulled out my key and turning it smoothly in the lock, a well oiled motion. That’s where everything gets a little blurry. Perhaps I just refuse to remember clearly.