Even as I called her name, I knew something horrible had happened.
The lights were on in the kitchen, yet soft yellow sunlight filled the room like a poisonous vapor. From the basement came the sound of the washing machine's incessant beeping, and my heart immediately accelerated to match its rhythm. I looked down at dark red footprints that became a long bloody smear leading across the pinewood floor and into the living room.
There she was with her back to me. She was propped up on the soft brown leather easy chair - the one we used to fight over - and for a fraction of a second, I thought she was just watching the idiotic shopping channel like usual and everything was okay again. I rushed towards her, and my arm hit the chair. It swung around 180 degrees.
She stared at me. It didn't seem like her though. Her eyes were blank, and her skin was yellow. She looked like a mannequin. That is, except for the gash across her neck and the congealed blood on her throat and breasts. The last time I saw her, we had fought, but I couldn't think about that now.
I crouched down. I couldn't breath. My chest hurt. I couldn't think. My phone. I needed my phone. I needed to call someone. Who? The police. That was all I could think. I couldn't think about the fact that she was really dead. I couldn't think about how it had happened. For now, I just needed to hold on to my shock and terror. I needed to make the call while it was still possible for me to pretend that it was not I who had slit Martha's throat.