And I had killed someone, and I didn't remember, and I would never know why.
I stood up.
My legs were shaking. My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
The body.
Rue.
Dead.
I had killed her.
I didn't remember.
But I had killed her.
"I'm sorry."
The words came out as a whisper.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I don't remember. I wouldn't—"
I couldn't finish.
The words wouldn't come.
There were no words for what I'd done.
There were no words for what I was becoming.
I ran.
The hallway stretched before me, dark and endless, and I ran through it without looking back. My boots slapped against the concrete. My breath came in ragged gasps. The blood on my hands was drying, cracking, flaking off in red-brown pieces that scattered behind me like breadcrumbs.
The door.
I pushed through it.
The street.
Dark.
Empty.
The city was asleep, and I was running through it, covered in blood, sobbing, screaming for help that would never come.
"Please!"
My voice echoed off the buildings.
"Someone help me! She's dead! I don't know who killed her!"
No one answered.
No one came.
The streets were empty, and I was alone, and I had killed someone, and I didn't remember, and I would never know why.
