The Watcher

A WOMAN IS LOOKING DOWN AT ME. She's smiling.

She'd be pleasant looking if it weren't for the blood that mats her hair and streaks her face.

Blood? Whose blood?

Why can't I remember?

A memory cuts like a strobe light into my head. It pulses in black-and-white relief. A body. Ravaged. Torn. Blood everywhere.

Instinctively, I raise my hands. They are flaked with dried blood. My nails are embedded with tissue.

The groan starts deep in my gut and spews forth in a wail of despair.

What have I done?

Why can't I remember?