By My Hand

I know he’s dead. I killed him myself. Stabbed the knife into his heart. Felt the blood as it gushed over my face, surprisingly hot, salty to the taste, viscous. I watched the life drain from his eyes. Saw the horror turn slowly to incredulity and then, an unexpected acceptance. I know he’s dead.

I saw him two nights ago. I was brushing my teeth and I glanced up towards the window. I clearly saw his face outlined against the leaves that were swirly madly on the tree outside. I blinked, and he...