It's kind of funny, really, how quickly things change. One minute it'll be raining madly, the next the sun'll break through the clouds, and before you know it, there'll be a rainbow. One minute I'd be strolling down the streets of Woodstock, the next I'd be meeting you. Hell, if I'd had known what was about to happen, maybe I would've accepted that joint Doug had offered me earlier. Would've calmed me down a bit - perhaps even influenced my decision. Knocked that blindsighted oh-my-goodness-she-is-beautiful feeling that strung me into this situation in the first place.

You see, when I walked into that public washroom that day, thinking I was gonna take a piss, instead, I was greeted by the sight of you. You as in, you with a knife wedged deep into a guy's chest, angled towards his heart. Now usually, a human's instinct should be, "Well fuck. I should get out of here." But no. Mine was, "This poor beautiful girl, I need to help her."

Because, well, I'm a decent person.

I stood silent for a few seconds, shifting kind of awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Should I help the guy? Should I call the police? Should I yell?

I decided to help you clean up.

And then you broke the silence. "I don't need your help," you said.

I took another look at you, nothing but a short glimpse, but I took in more of your features. You had a round face, and if it weren't for your hard green eyes, I would've thought you were younger. My eyes went a little lower, just enough to notice you weren't wearing a bra. With this new information, it was clear, you were a feminist. You probably burned your bras along with the other few women, to show that you didn't need support. I looked away quickly, pretending to look around the bathroom, stalling, waiting for you to say something else. There was nothing in the room, nothing but a shit ton of blood and a dead body. I grabbed a few paper towels. I thought you'd tell me off again, but you didn't. You just stayed quiet. I did the same. To fill the silence, or should I say, to cancel out the sound of blood-soaked paper being tossed around, I repeated your sentence over and over again in my head. Perhaps that's what kept me sane in that very moment.

Before I could dip the paper towel into the pool of blood, your hand reached for mine, nails digging roughly into my skin. "Don't," you said. "It's better we just leave it. We have no bleach. No gloves. Nowhere to hide the body."

Smart, I thought.

"Why'd you do this?" I asked.

You swallowed hard, tensed up a bit and whispered, "He was going to rape me."