Let me say this now. The event of which you are about to read are not my fault. I am not to blame, nor did I partake in any of these events. If anything, I am a witness.

It was her. I saw her with the blood on her hands. On the knife she held. Her blue eyes held no remorse, only fear that she had been caught.

She killed my husband. The only person on this whole earth who cared about me. And she took him away.

I came home one October day, eager to surprise him with a romantic dinner. I had wonderful news to share.

I was with child.

We had been trying for so long to start our family, and now I could finally tell him that in seven months’ time, we would be parents.

I entered our home eagerly, excitement fluttering in my belly. My husband was already home, but I as I prepared to tell him the news, I noticed something was wrong. His breath smelled of alcohol, which wasn't unusual. He always had two beers after work. No, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there was another scent. Something light. Flowery.

Perfume.

My excitement quickly dissolved into a fiery anger. I yelled at him, demanding to know who he had been with while I was gone. But the twit couldn't form an answer. He backed away, failing to comprehend the accusations I was throwing at him like stones.

I left the room and entered the kitchen, seething and heartbroken. I paced back and forth along the tile, reeling from the urge to cry, scream, and to hit something, anything, all at the same time.

What happened next I do not exactly recall. I remember going upstairs to tell him to get out, hearing my husband's screams, seeing her. The murderess.

My husband's killer.

Her hands and blouse were stained with his blood, her blue eyes wild with stirring emotions. Anger, sadness, fear. Fear most of all. In spite of the fear, however, her pastel pink lips were curled in an evil smirk.

The scream that escaped my throat was feral as I lunged forward, fully prepared to murder this evil witch. Sometime glass shattered, raining around me and sprinkling the ground in a multi-hued rain, some of it slicing my skin and getting lodged in my hands. No pain registered, however, and I kept lunging at the flaxen-haired murderess.

Police and paramedics burst through the door then, dragging me away, bleeding, screaming, cursing, my brain filled with fog and images of the woman's icy eyes.

My cuts were cleaned and stitched, the glass taken out, blood washed away. I saw the woman everywhere. In the hospital, on the streets. I even saw her when the police interviewed me.

But no one believed me.

The police arrested me. They said there was more than enough evidence to convict me and that the jury would find me guilty. The judge would go easier on me if I confessed, they said.

But I didn't understand what they wanted a confession for. I didn't kill my husband. I am a witness, not a killer. It was her. Not me. Her!

The police told me that the woman I saw with evil blue eyes and flaxen hair never existed. The hands covered with blood, the blouse. They were mine. She was my reflection. I killed him.

But I know they're wrong.

It wasn't me. I would never kill my husband, the only man I have ever loved, the only one who has ever loved me. I was angry yes, furious in fact. But not enough to kill him.

It wasn't my fault. She killed him.

I am innocent!

You believe me...

Don't you?