Mark stared at the rain-lashed window, the drops racing each other down the glass like tears he could no longer shed. The house was silent except for the relentless patter, a sound that had become the soundtrack to his isolation. One year. One year since Anna’s death, and the guilt still coiled in his gut like a living thing, twisting tighter with every breath. He remembered the night vividly—or at least, he thought he did. The argument had escalated, words like knives, his voice rising over the storm outside. She had stormed out to the car, him following, keys in hand because he always drove when angry. The road was treacherous, slick with rain, and then the deer—yes, the deer—leapt from the darkness. He swerved, too sharply, the world tilting, screeching tires, impact. Anna’s scream cut short. When he woke in the hospital, she was gone.
But the memory frayed at the edges. In quiet moments, details shifted. Sometimes there was no deer, just his hands gripping the wheel too hard, rage blinding him. Had he accelerated? Pushed her head against the window in fury? The police report said accident, no charges, but Mark knew better. Guilt whispered truths the daylight drowned out.
He avoided the garage where the wrecked car still sat, covered under a tarp like a shameful secret. Work had become a fog; colleagues at the law firm offered condolences that now felt like accusations. ‘How are you holding up, Mark?’ they’d ask, eyes lingering too long. He smiled through it, but inside, the weight pressed down.
Nights were worse. Dreams where Anna stood at the foot of the bed, her neck bruised not from the crash but from his hands. ‘Why, Mark?’ she’d whisper, her voice echoing in his skull. He’d wake gasping, sheets tangled, reaching for her side of the bed, cold and empty.
Desperate, he sought Dr. Ellis, a therapist recommended by a friend. Her office was warm, bookshelves lined with tomes on the mind’s dark corners. ‘Tell me about Anna,’ she said, her voice soft but insistent.
He poured it out—the fights over his long hours, her growing distance, the night of the crash. ‘I think I caused it,’ he admitted, voice cracking. ‘Maybe on purpose.’
Dr. Ellis nodded, unfazed. ‘Memories can be unreliable, Mark. Trauma reshapes them. Let’s explore.’
Sessions became ritual. Hypnosis, free association. Flashes came: Anna’s diary, hidden in the attic, entries scrawled in fury. ‘Mark drinks too much. He’s changing. I fear for the baby.’ Baby? They hadn’t planned children. Or had they?
He searched the attic that night, dust motes dancing in flashlight beam. There it was, leather-bound, her handwriting. Pages of despair: his rages, threats, a miscarriage she blamed on him. ‘He pushed me down the stairs.’ Heart pounding, Mark read on. The night of the crash: ‘Confronted him about the other woman. He snapped. Grabbed me by the throat in the car…’
No. That couldn’t be. He slammed it shut, retreated to the scotch. But sleep brought visions: his hands around her neck, her gasps, then the swerve to cover it.
Doubt festered. He drove to the crash site, rural road unchanged. Skid marks still there, but length suggested higher speed. His speed. Guilt morphed to horror.
Dr. Ellis pushed harder. ‘Imagine the crash, Mark. See it clearly.’ Under hypnosis, the scene unfolded: Argument, car, rain. But no deer. His foot heavy on gas, shouting, one hand shoving her head down. The tree rushed up. Impact.
He emerged sweating. ‘I killed her.’
‘Not intentionally, perhaps,’ Dr. Ellis soothed. ‘But let’s process.’
Home, he confronted the tarp-covered car. Pulled it off. Dented hood, bloodstains faint. In the glovebox, a photo: Anna smiling, belly slightly rounded. Baby. His rage had ended two lives.
Weeping, he called Dr. Ellis late night. ‘I can’t live with this.’
‘Come in tomorrow, Anna. We’ve made progress.’
The phone slipped from his hand. Anna? His reflection in the hall mirror caught his eye—hair longer, face softer, eyes… her eyes. Panic surged. He rushed to the bedroom mirror, clothes hanging loose, but the necklace—her necklace—around his neck.
Memories cascaded, flipped. Not his hands on her throat, but hers on his. Mark the abuser, drunk, violent. The stairs push—self-defense. The car: she drove, he attacked, she crashed to end it. But guilt too much; mind fractured, became Mark, the killer, to bear the sin.
Dr. Ellis’s voice in memory: ‘Anna, your dissociative identity has protected you. Mark was the vessel for guilt.’
The house wasn’t his; it was hers. Photos on walls shifted in perception—always her alone. Isolation had distorted everything, but now truth shattered the illusion.
She—Anna—sank to the floor, the weight lifting yet crushing anew. The guilt buried no more, realigned. Not killer, but survivor, scarred. Outside, rain eased, first light breaking. Redemption? Or endless echo?