Murder Most Foul

Damn. I just killed her.

Just like that. She forced me to do it, of course.
Her actions, her tendencies, her personality. With a terrible
inevitably, it all led to her death. At my hands.

I had to do it. I just had to do it. I really had
no choice, none at all. As I said, inevitable. Could I have done
something differently and allowed her live? I'd thought about it. I'd
thought a lot about that, believe me. And I mean a lot. I couldn't
sleep for thinking about it. And when I did sleep, I woke up in
sweats dreaming about it.

Okay, okay, I didn't actually push the blade deep
into her body, through those expensive designer dresses she loved to
flaunt. Teasing the men, enticing them into her arms and then into
her bed. No. And I didn't feel any pressure on my hand as the blade
was shoved with terrible force deep into her chest, severing
exquisite silk before piercing her sublimely delicate flesh. The
blood gushing crimson from the fatal wound, arterial blood staining
the surrounding silk into a damning accusatory red. But, my God, I
felt it. Inside. I almost cried with the horror of the deed.

She loved those designer dresses.

The blade cutting through that exquisite material
on its way to severing her major arteries would have hurt her even
more than the pain of actually being stabbed. I was sure of that.
And, of course, it could only be silk. It had to be silk she was
wearing. Thai silk. I know that because I know her too well. So well
that she had to die.

Now I feel the walls of impending solitary
confinement closing around me. My new home a cell. Within which I
must suffer the consequences of my terrible decision that will come
home to roost.

Now what do I do?

My head in my hands, my mind is empty of ideas. I
hadn't planned to kill her. But it was her actions that led
to her death. I could find no logical way around it. She had to die.
She had brought herself to the point at which her death was
inevitable.

So now I become Jack in the Overlook hotel. Am I
too, going insane?

Forced into a corner.

Staring at the flashing curser on the monitor,
it's beating pulse the visual equivalent of cackling laughter from a
mocking hyena.

And now what? Where do I go from here?

Shit.

Ten thousand words in - and I've killed off my main
protagonist.