Afterward, I felt a keen buzz, like the susurrations of a crush. But I also felt intensely anxious, taut and tight with the realization of what I had done. It wasn’t guilt, not really, not as I fumble to understand what “guilt” means. It was more the pervasive fear that I’d be found out—or possibly the fear that I wouldn’t. An inarticulate wonder that I’d come to inhabit the amorphous amoral space of having killed a man and being entirely okay with it.
