She lay between two trees, not ten feet from the pond, from myself. Her hair was blond; she appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen. She lay on her back, her right leg twisted beneath her body at an unnatural angle. Her left hand touched the closest tree, held up by the trunk rather than her own musculature. The expression on her face was one of shock; her open blue eyes stared at the black sky without blinking. Of course, it would have been frightening to see her blink when it looked as if she had been stabbed a dozen times in the chest and abdomen. Her yellow sweater was so red it could have been a Christmas gift from a psychotic Santa. Even her blue jeans were drenched in blood. There was no need to check on her breathing, her heartbeat. No one would be hanging a stocking at the fireplace for her this holiday season.

In the grass, close to where I sat, was a knife.

A bloody blade. It was so close.

While I slept, it could have fallen from my hand.

“Oh God,” I whispered.