She turned and tried to push herself up, but already, I was on top of her, the shards of glass digging through my jeans into my knees. There was glass on the side of her face. The shock hadn’t left her eyes. I hardly knew what I was doing.

‘You killed him and you’re going to send the police that knife. You’re going to frame me, your best friend. You won’t get away with it.’ My face only was inches from hers.

Vera’s breath came in rasps, making a clicking sound in her lungs. From somewhere beneath her, the blood had already begun to leak, sticky, crimson, against the white tile of her kitchen. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please, just stop.’ Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘And I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done.’

‘What I’ve done?’ I asked, disbelief swimming within me as I grabbed her by the shoulders. For a second, I could see it in her eyes – she thought I was pulling her up, she thought I was still acting the friend. That I could just let this go – the murder, her deceit – because I was sick with shame over kissing him.

‘What about what you’ve done?’ Before I could stop myself, I slammed her shoulders against the tile with all my might, and her head snapped back, thunking against the floor.

Blood began to pool under her head. Darker, thicker, and faster than I’d expected.

Her eyes were shut. She probably had a concussion.

I scrambled up, staring at her. She wasn’t moving.

‘Vera?’ I said. ‘Vera!’

What had I done? What the fuck had I done?

‘Vera!’ I said again, desperate now. I knelt, tugging at her shoulders, already heavy.

As I turned her, I saw it. A shard of glass, a big one, stuck in the back of her neck. Still there. I dropped her; stepped back, my heart racing, my breaths coming frantically.

Blood was everywhere. Spilling out of her, all over the tile.

Had I killed her? Jesus Christ, had I fucking killed her?

‘Vera!’

No answer. She was gone.

I shook my head, trying to make sense of what had just happened, tears welling in my eyes. Vera was my friend, my last friend left on this earth, and now she was dead.

I had killed her.

It was self-defense, I told myself, already testing the sound of it in my head.

She killed him, and she would have killed me next, and it was self-defense.

It was self-defense it was self-defense it was self-defense.

I paused, frozen, as it all clicked into place.

It couldn’t be self-defense, I realized – I didn’t have a single bruise.

The wine bottle stared at me from the tile, an answer.

Hands shaking, I grabbed it. I stood up straight, looked in the reflection of the door to the backyard, and bit my lip. I’d been hurt before. I could hurt again.