Nothing.
"Please."
I was screaming now. Or thought I was screaming. The sound was loud in my ears, but I couldn't tell if it was real or if I was imagining it.
"Please, someone help! She's dead! Someone killed her!"
No one came.
There was no one to come.
The building was empty. The hallway was empty. The room was empty except for me and the body and the blood that was already starting to dry on my hands.
"I didn't mean to."
The words came out without permission. Pleading. Begging. The words of someone who needed to believe something so badly that she'd convinced herself it was true.
"I didn't mean to kill her. I don't remember killing her. I wouldn't—I couldn't—"
But I had.
I must have.
My hands were around her throat.
Or the knife was in my hand.
Or both.
I had killed her, and I didn't remember, and not remembering was worse than remembering because it meant I could do it again. I could kill someone else and forget that too. I could wake up tomorrow with blood on my hands and no memory of how it got there, and I would never know who I'd become.
"Please."
I was on my knees now. I didn't remember falling. The floor was cold and hard and stained with blood, and I was kneeling in it, my hands pressed to my face, my sobs echoing off the walls.
"Please, someone help me. I don't know what happened. I don't remember. I don't—"
The words dissolved into crying.
I couldn't stop.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
The only thing I knew was that Rue was dead, and I had killed her, and I didn't remember any of it.
The body.
I looked at it again.
Rue's face was peaceful. Almost peaceful. The hollow eyes were closed now—had I closed them? I didn't remember—and her mouth was soft, almost smiling.
She looked like she was sleeping.
She looked like she was dreaming.
She looked like the girl who wasn't there.
