I tossed and turned in the bed unable to sleep. Tomorrow would be my wife Debbie’s first death anniversary. I was a carpenter by profession. I still remember the day I had carried Debbie as a fresh bride thirty years back into the wooden shack I had built with my own hands. She had been a beautiful lass of twenty and I was proud of her.

It had simply been a misunderstanding over the breakfast she had cooked for me the day of her death that had caused us to fight. I had always wanted fried pork for my breakfast but six month before Debbie’s death the doctor had advised me to stop eating pork as it was having a deleterious effect on my health and making me put on weight. The doctor had also advised me to exercise regularly. He warned me of heart attacks if I did not go slow on fat content in my diet.

The result was that for six months Debbie had completely cut off pork and other meat with fatty content from my menu. In addition she made me walk regularly for an hour every day. Slowly my resentment towards Debbie built up to mammoth proportions. Initially it began with a mild dislike but steadily built into massive hatred. Everyday I begged her to feed me pork and to give me a break from the walks.

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