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.
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.
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.