Trigger

Straight off the highway, there's a forest preserve, lush with life. If you walk straight through at an eastern start by three miles, you'll walk right into a shed, smack in the middle of nowhere. I would sneak back to this location at the dim of dusk and wash my hands of the blood of my victim. I would dip them in bleach for thirty seconds, tipping my head reversely so as not to get the high from the ammonia, and then slowly bring them to the sink. I would scrub them thoroughly for however long it took with Dawn dish soap, knowing full well that the fruity shit you buy at Bath and Body Works does nothing to clean the blood and grime from deep within my pores. After that, I would wash the blade of my knife or hang my gun up in the steel double-door pantry against the wall.

But it was on this windy, dreary November night that I didn't have blood on my hands, didn't have a knife to clean, didn't have a gun to hang up. Because, on this windy, dreary November night, I deliberately hadn't killed her.