It was the cold shiver of sudden understanding that woke me from the trance: had I really done it or was it just my imagination? And with quivering arms I raised the gun, its barrel hot and smoking, and looked at its robust design. What craftsmanship had gone into that life-taking object! And i kept looking at the gun and admiring it trying to remember something. Where had I left the body? I tried replaying the scene in my head, but previous events seemed somewhat different, like they were the product of a different consciousness, another being that seemed to have been myself once. But how silly of me! There is always the choice to follow the blood path. I started moving along the marble floor now enriched with new moitifs--there a duck, somewhere else a horse--towards the kitchen--white kitchen, and what a beautiful contrast does red provide! "No, I cannot think this way! This isn't me!" "Sure it is, why wouldn't it be?" "Because I cannot be that cold to look at blood as if it were part of the interior design." "And yet, you have to admit that white and red form an admirable ensemble." "Keep following the trail! Stop thinking!"
I moved again, towards the bedroom. Yes, there it is! It's just lying there, all cares, distress, humiliation swept clean off it face. I remember this face smiling. "No, I am not the one who remembers, that was not me." But that face was smiling at me. "No, I never knew that face with its human emotions written all over it. Look at it now! Have you seen anything more peaceful? Anything other than that cannot be taken into account as a possibility. What place do emotions have on a face?" And then I remembered to look at my own. "You're right. Look! The immovability of each feature leaves the face open as it should be." And I continue to look in the mirror. Only the eye moves while some light inside me slowly dims and dies.