You know this spot, and it is a bit of a walk to get here so why leave so soon. The flask is again offered to you. The warmth of the whiskey is starting to spread down your fingertips. As you look up a few snow flurries fall between the pines. You break the silence.
“So you’re married?”
“Was”
“Was?”
“Was”
“Divorced?”
“Dead”
“I’m sorry”
“Don’t be”
You offer your flask as a sign of condolence. It is greedily accepted.
“It was me”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t cancer or some tragic accident, it was murder, and it was me”
The moonlight began reflecting off of that manic smile. Your heart is racing. Can this be true? Why? How? Do you even care? What do you do?
B) Stay and here the rest of the story
Homecoming of Horrors 