"You risked everything."

"I couldn't do it."

At the time, he had thought that the man was just referring to parallel circumstances. "Someone young and beautiful comes along…" But no, the joke ran deeper than that. And the crushing irony, the last twist of the knife, is right here before me. "I couldn't do it," he said. But he has. This is her. It has to be. No other feasible possibility exists.

"I'm still here," I told him.

"Are you," he asked, and I thought that he sounded pathetic, as if he were the one who had killed someone and was disappearing.

I am still here and he is still there, but "there" is now a mockery of what I no longer have, what I never had, because the woman who is not Debbie is not Debbie. And what makes her laughter the wrong laughter is what makes it right. The sincerity that I never heard. The depth of something not faked. I am still here and I am still disappearing.

I walk by them without turning my head. His eyes slide by me without recognition. It isn't surprising. Three years ago, I doubt that I would have recognized me as I am now. My hair is pure white and a full beard obscures the bottom half of my face. What is visible is heavily lined. I am much thinner. Debbie would say that I walk like an old man, but then, she would have said that three years ago, true or not.

As I make my way home, I recall the stab of triumph that I felt when the other man—what was his name—Jim Brass—said that he had "just a theory" and I realized that they had nothing. I suddenly understood that I had gotten away with murder, and it had been so easy. Very complicated, yes. Lots of tiny steps had to be performed in exactly the right order, but not a single one had posed any real difficulty.

But living, being "still here," well, as one might say, there's the rub. It is very simple. One only has to continue as they were. It is as simple as walking up a wall. One must put one foot in front of the other until the reach the ceiling. It is equally impossible.

Once inside, I remove the scalpel from its drawer and turn it over in my hands. It is just as sharp as it was three years ago. I raise it to my neck, just the same place. I wonder if Gil Grissom will process this scene. I wonder if he will remember me. Of course he will. I wonder who the woman was, what her name was. I wonder if he will tell her about me when she asks him 'how was work?' I doubt it. He probably never told her and never will. He is afraid of me, or was, because he was afraid of himself.

I wonder if I will fall to my knees. But it would not be in front of butterflies, but in front of her. We gave the goddess the idols she worshiped and worshiped them ourselves by worshiping her. She never bought them herself, but only received them. A god that you can buy yourself loses its wonder, but a god that is given, even by a lesser being, can still be greater than oneself. I wonder why she did not lose her wonder if we were buying her, paying her with little winged gods.

I wonder if she is happy. I hope so. I hope that she has a happy life now.

Debbie.

I wonder if you love me. I love you so much and I saved you. I had to save you. I wonder and I press down and Debbie, I…I…only wanted…