Strange, that I can’t feel anything. It’s odd. I should feel something about it. After all, the girl is dead, murdered. And I don’t even know her name. I could find out, but no, not now. Don’t want to think about it.

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I wasn’t even there. I did not do this. I did not want this. I did not do this. That’s what the psychiatrist said to keep telling myself.

I walk over to the window and throw it wide open to let out the stale air. A cardinal alights on a branch, the sun highlighting its bright red feathers. It sings to me.  I should care, but I don’t. Resting my elbows on the sill, I try to take a deep breath, but it chokes in my throat.

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Admit it, though, it was your fault. You didn’t see it and you’re supposed to perceive things others don’t notice. Give the correct diagnosis. Help them.

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