The cold wind swirled just outside the shed where I killed her. Her eyes were so blue.

Her heartbeat raced in her neck. I could feel it against my palm as I clenched her throat and steadied her thrashing. I placed a hand around her mouth, the blade against her throat.

She did not die easily.

I danced all night so I could forget, but she was waiting for me when I came home with her blue eyes and her frantic heartbeat. When the blood stopped gushing, stopped pouring, stopped dripping, she was still watching me with those eyes. They seemed to capture and reflect the endless sky she had seen every day. As long as she stared at me, I knew there was no way she could be dead.

She did not die easily.

I cried, heartbroken, into the crook of my arm. Saying “I’m sorry” wouldn’t bring her back. I tried it enough to know. She would never forgive me, nor stop accusing me with those beautiful eyes.

She did not die easily.

But when she did, we bagged and paid for her. We plucked and cooked her. Then we ate her. Her blue-eyed stare stayed with me. She would never die.

And I would never forget the day I took responsibility for what I ate.