There are names for what you do.
They cycle through your head as you stare at her body. The angle of her broken neck. The blood staining the ground beneath. There’s something about the moment after impact that sticks with you.
Has always stuck with you.
It shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. You shouldn’t linger, but you do. You press your index and middle fingers to your lips.
There are names for what you do. But only one matters. Release.
