Waking, drenched in blood, axe laying discarded on the bed, I realized:
Christ, I’ve killed her!
We’d been fighting, lately we were always fighting, and we’d been drinking, but had I drank enough to lose time? And I’m not a man who, black-out-drunk, would think to get the axe…
I’m not a murderer.
Okay, okay. What did I do, and how do I deal with it?
I rush to splash water on my face, but my hands pass through the faucet and, when I look up, there’s no reflection in the mirror.
She killed me.