Two hundred and fifty words

Falling snow bites down on my red fingers.

Occasional traffic skims through the low mist. No walkers out, so I'm
unseen through trees. It's hard removing traces, working fast before
it's frozen beneath for others to find. Retching. Crossing things off a
mental 'to do' list.

So this is Christmas.

I've thought about the moment already a thousand times. When, not if,
the questions come. How far it will go. Further enquiries. Warrant,
arrest, charge. Or not? What to say. How to sound convincing at every
potential stage. How to express, should it come to that, why. To say,
explain, to name it. Not being sure of a category legal or moral. If
any? What if I didn't kill her, just may have done, and feared I did,
so disposed of the body? What if I don't dispose of the body? What did
I mean to do? Guilt for the act, or for the perceptible lack of
itself?

Makeup carried down her face by her tears. A scream less than a
whisper. Everything breaking, disintegrating. Details change when I
replay it in my head.

Between there and then. Intention is a question. By definition
intention is a rhetorical question, as you can't answer it without
lying. Which is not to be of dubious morality. A conundrum of
semantics, how to answer the rupture. Somehow there must be a trail to
follow, a clue. Yet to say one thing moves me further away from its
truth.

And what have you done?