She lay motionless in the white sand basking in the heat of the holiday sun. My sister, sweat beads glistening against the bronze of her natural tan, was the image of perfection. She was what gave artists their inspiration, musicians the song, poets their rhyme. Even as the sand stained crimson, soaking the blood that drained from her lifeless body, she was perfect; in life as in death.

Silence – the say it’s golden. The only thing golden was the bullet.