Awaiting trial, the murderer was still confused;


“Who/what/when/where/why/how?” The questions pounded through his head, pulsing by turns and in cycles.


Who had he killed? What queen had hordes of followers to avenge her death? Who would have done that for him?


What had he done? She’d threatened him daily, threatened to leave him, but all he had done by shooting her was leave her. Was she alone in hell? What kept her company?


When had things changed? When had he known? They weren’t always this way. It had always been that either she had loved him or he had loved her at any given time, and they’d been working out. When did all that turn to hate? When had he become a killer?


Where would he go? Death, but which death? Just not hell, not hell, he prayed. Not with her. Not yet.


Why would he go? He’d never kill again, not even himself. He would leave the country, the hemisphere, and still end up alone. Why should they take him?


How would he go? He wouldn’t be given the rope. No, he would just be shown a locked door as long as his heart kept beating. They’d feed him and clothe him and put walls around him so he’d see her face for the rest of time. How would he do it? She’d watch over him until he died, and then she’d take his hand, dig her nails into his palms, and show him his new grave, the hole in the ground adjacent to hers.


He would be dead with her for as long as she wanted, but she would be dead. She would still be dead.


What had he done?