I had a dream that I was a murderer. I was a professional, and it felt good to be skilled at something. I was stalking a man in a greenhouse when I caught him from behind, pushed against his fat torso and cut his throat with a steak knife. I felt the uneven surfaces of the teeth stagger their way through him. It was messy but he would bleed out naturally, like it was an accident. Then I watched him fall down on top of a pot plant and writhe. I leered at the blob of dying human and leaned closer. The man rolled over, spraying blood into my eyes. When I wiped them clear, he’d become a woman that I used to be in love with. The blood wasn’t pumping out fast enough and I felt horrible. She was dying too slow, if at all. The job had to be finished. She was squeezing the flaps of skin back together. But I couldn’t put the knife back in her, whether it was her innocent smell, her cute cries, or another failure in me – as instantly as I felt assured I was a killer, I instantly knew that I wasn’t a killer. I wrapped up the cut stroked her hair. We looked at each other. She was ok. Then I shot myself in the head. ‘Sorry’ might have been said, but dreams always taper off before you wake up.
When I woke up I remembered the one man I had killed during the apocalypse, and I remembered the two men Zoe had killed after it. She definitely didn’t say sorry after that, but to be fair, neither did I, and it was my fault.