at once the flood of images drugged him , her pounding heart driving them as it drove the blood : the voice , yes , the voice telling her to kill , telling them both to kill , lovers made in a filthy back alley in milan by a scrawny bearded blood drinker who pushed them out to kill and steal , twenty years in the blood maybe , dying , and then it broke down into bits and pieces of childhood , her white first communion dress , incense , the crowded cathedral , `` ave maria , '' a mother 's smiling face , a dress of checkered cloth , apples on a plate , taste of apples , the inevitable peace .