I threw the knife across the room in horror as I brought my blood-drenched palm to my lips.
Backing away from his lifeless body, the mist that had once descended on me had now vapourised. Everything around me suddenly felt cold, as if his soul had left his host, leaving a ravaged shell on the tiled floor and blood substituting for grout.
I paced frantically, trying to remember something, anything, to spark my psyche and piece together what the hell happened here.
Staring as his body, I witnessed the crimson pool beside him getting bigger and bigger, being careful to step back as the river of life flowing towards me almost kissed the tips of my sneakers; I felt sick. If I didn’t know what went on, how in the world was I going to explain this to the police?
I’d never been a violent person in my life; I had always shied away from confrontation as soon as it arose. Never did I think in a million years that I would wake from an apparent blackout, wielding a kitchen knife, covered in blood.
I had two options – call the cops and wait for them to show, trying to convince them that I honestly hadn’t a clue as to what went on here or grab the knife, dump it and run.