This chapter is a lot shorter compared to my other chapter which is more heavy.

Chapter 2

As my days on this earth continued, I became riddled with guilt. I began to become convinced that I had been the murder. I do not have any evidence except this feeling of guilt, but why should I feel guilty if I had nothing to hide? At the same time I didn’t want the police in charge of the investigation to discover new evidence which might incriminate me so I became a hermetic being never venturing outside of my home and paying others to go and do errands for me. I soon developed agoraphobia – severe anxiety when faced with having to exit my home. I haven’t stepped out for three years and counting. There is no evidence to prove that I am the murderer, even to myself, but I have long believed in evidence of my insanity. Besides there is no other possible culprit than me. He had no relatives and was a lonely man, I was the only one who was under his employment and I don’t think that he had much interaction with anybody else. I was there, covered in blood, yet there were no traces of DNA, no mistakes detected at the crime scene . The perfect murder if ever I saw one. But it is too perfect: as if it happened by magic! I can feel myself going crazy. I have begun to question whether this is all a figment of my imagination. The lines separating truth and fiction are becoming blurred. So it was on that day that I decided to step out of my home for the first time. I lay on the snow with some jeans and a sweater staring at the sky and slowly losing my focus, until things went white and the clouds were hard to see. Staring down at myself, like an astral projection, I saw the blood draining out of me until I became as white as a ghost and the surrounding snow became soiled with red rose prints like my pure white skirt on that day.

I woke up unharmed, as if by another miracle, another magical event. There were no cuts on my wrists, no footprints in the snow. The rose petals of blood were gone and the landscape remained perfect and untouched, as it had before the deed. I thought I did it, but perhaps it was a fanciful dream or maybe I really was insane. I stood in the cold and solitary flat kitchen, staring at the kitchen knife and cried , partly out of relief and also a small sense of horror. It’s hard to believe that in a few months my life had changed so drastically. I had become obsessed with my own uncertainty. What had really happened that day? Was I or was I not responsible? My inability to answer both questions only left me more frustrated. I had already begun my slow descent into insanity, but I did not want to die by my own hand. I knew that the only way to put all this to rest was to uncover the truth.