When I killed Ron, I lost myself. For the longest time, I stared at him on the floor, lying with glazed eyes, throat still retching to get rid of the blood filling it. He was dead, but his body didn’t know it, didn’t want to know it yet. I stared at him, my brother, my best mate, and said goodbyes in my head as his fingers twitched, causing his nails to click on the linoleum and like his throat, finally still. My greatest friend, my confidant, my lover, he died without making a sound. I caught my tears with my hands and sleeves before they hit the floor, and dropped the knife in the bag. I strip, stuff the clothes in a ziplock bag and zip it up. I toss it inside my duffel with the knife. I change into some clothes I find in his wardrobe; jeans, a black t-shirt with “I’m sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit” printed in bold white on the front, a pair of his old sneakers. Adidas. He never wore Nike. No socks, no briefs. I look in his mirror, see a murderer, shoulder my duffel and walk out. At his door, I hesitate and take a last look at him, my Ron. How unglamorous, I think absurdly, to be found the next morning in some obscene swastika of stiff limbs with your blood setting around your head like old wine. I gag, and in reflex, squeeze my eyes shut and I see not my best friend, but a horned lycan, one who sets off every full moon to hunt. I remember the newspaper articles about missing children and couples from the park. It’s gray fur is matted, it’s eyes are misted. My friend’s eyes are misted. No it is not him. Not him. He didn’t know. He could not have known. He would wake up after every full moon, yawn, dress and shuffle off to school, thinking about fucking my girlfriend, never knowing what he had done the night before, the blood I can see on his hands and mouth and chest, that just get more and more each time. He never knew, he never knew, he never knew. I didn’t know. I’d see him every day and the fur gets thicker and the blood gets more, and I never realized. He never realized. I open my eyes convulsively and run down the hall. At the landing, I remember and run back up to his apartment to wipe the doorknobs with my handkerchief. It is like watching someone else do these things. The part of the hanky I use is bloody and leaves a red sticky film on the knob. I find a clean spot and redo. My hands shake. When I’m done cleaning and running back down, I trip and fall on my face. The neighbors give me weird looks and puzzled smiles. I want to shout and grab them by their collars and shake their pathetic polite faces, and tell them I just murdered my best friend, my darling Ron, he’s dead upstairs on the floor of his living room with a hole in his neck so big I could put my fist down his throat, but instead I smile at them, help Mrs. Nguyen pick up her fruits and apologize for the fright that I caused. I run out the door and down the street and far away until I can’t tell where I am anymore. My chest burns. I hope I am dying. I throw my bag down, bury my face in my handkerchief, taste Ron’s crispy blood drying to flakes on it and that’s when I started hitching, big fat hitching sobs and like a tide that couldn’t be stopped, I sat there with my hands in my face and cried for seven days and seven nights.