How did she get here? Why is she standing over this body? There are plenty of questions, and not nearly as many answers.

At the beginning, all she had was a note. A crumpled piece of paper with a few words on it. That was the first thing to be put into her pocket and forgotten about.

Soon it was accompanied by tear stained, torn pages. Pink and smelling of her favourite perfume, from her diary. If you could read them, you’d know what happened, but that isn’t as entertaining.

The next day, she added a few cough drops, some chapstick, and her sunglasses case. It wasn’t all to bright outside though.

That night, there was the takeout receipts, the phone full of missed calls, and the same crumpled note she had forgotten was there.

The next few days there were cutouts of magazines, job listings mostly, but also as many book clubs, cooking classes, and other things that took up time as could fit.

Then there was nothing for awhile. And all was calm.

Until the headphones became a daily necessity. Be it podcasts, audio books, or anything really. All you need to know is it signified a change.

There were less tear stained tissues after that, more questionable items. She always had a pocket knife on her, with pieces of wood she’d worked into little misshapen spikes. She’d have pepper spray on her. Her phone would have more missed texts and calls then ever, but always left unanswered, vibrating throughout the day.

Her ripped out diary pages were no longer pink and tear stained, not even filled with loopy handwriting. The pages were stuffed into pockets to hide from others who might find the diary, they were filled with frantic ramblings, then the scribbles that took up whole pages, then the single phrase that would trail for page after page after page. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you do it? why did you do it why did you do itwhydidyoudoitwhydidyoud-‘

Then there was a knife. It still had the scent of the sports and hunting store it came from that night. It still had a pristine blade and untouched handle. But over time the handle wore down, the same small handprint wore deeper and deeper into it until it clearly belonged to one person and no one else could hold it comfortably. But the blade never wore down, it only got sharper. Every night before she went to bed the knife and the knife sharpner would return to the pocket, and in the morning the knife would come out and return with the handle a little more used that the day before.

Then one day, the knife came out of her pocket at a different time of day. It was a cloudy day, cold with strong winds.

And when it came back, it was covered in blood. And she shoved it far enough down to find a crumpled piece of paper she had forgotten about so long ago. She takes it out, reads it, and throws it into the wind.

So what did the paper say? You might’ve been able to guess, it says ‘I love you.’

And this is the one chance to hear what she says, because that night, over the body and covered in blood, she says what she would write on that note now, “Why didn’t you love me too? Why her over me?”