A WOMAN IS LOOKING DOWN AT ME. She's smiling.

She'd be pleasant looking if it weren't for the blood that mats her hair and streaks her face.

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Blood? Whose blood?

Why can't I remember?

A memory cuts like a strobe light into my head. It pulses in black-and-white relief. A body. Ravaged. Torn. Blood everywhere.

Instinctively, I raise my hands. They are flaked with dried blood. My nails are embedded with tissue.

The groan starts deep in my gut and spews forth in a wail of despair.

What have I done?

Why can't I remember?

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