I watch as the prison guard shackles my hands and feet, the chains jangling. If you distance yourself away enough, it sounds a little like tinkling chimes... a broken music box. Huh. Who'd have thought it.

It's been a kind of haze, I've been living in. I've been living in a kind of 'half-light'. I wonder if I'm in shock?

Probably.

She's gone, isn't she? So what does that make me?

I knew every line, every curve, every part of her face. But now all I see is those blond curls. Blood-soaked, blonde curls.

She drove me to it. To madness. A momentary lapse of control.

But the way she was saying hello to that store clerk. The way the guy at the gas pump looked at her. The way the preacher's eyes lingered on her for that second too long when he passed her the hymn sheet...

She said she wasn't doing anything. But she *knew* what she was doing. She just had to stand there and look pretty and men flocked. She just oozed... appeal.

Yeh, she drove me too it.

Her fault.

That's when I became a monster.

And I plead... I plead *not* guilty.