My editor often says that the deaths I write about are full of sickening details, too real to be fictional.
But I know she was wrong. I have never really understood death, and the world in my book is one ten thousandth less cold than reality.
But now, I have enough time to observe it and describe it - "Death" is standing in front of me, personally turning over its bloody first page for me. My story, or our story, is forced to begin with a bloody pause.
Intention: When death can come back, do you value life? When you are the only one who remembers the pain, are the memories beautiful?