I’m crawling all over the house searching for my meds, still screaming like a child in a burning building. My brain is on fire. I can smell its stinky smoke like seared meat. Where are the firemen? Who’s going to save the very life my husband wants to kill? Should I call 911? No, too hard. My hand is in my purse, I’m throwing its contents everywhere—checkbook, make-up mirror which shatters like a fallen star—searching for the pillbox. Now there’s shooting stars in my head, zapping me like a bug zapper. I’ve finally got my meds, swallow three without water. How did I do that? Swallow my pills while my husband is choking me? I don’t know, I simply don’t know.