Wild by Naomi Clark

taken anything.
    “Harris?” she called out, then remembered that she’d decided to leave him. Had she kicked him out? She sat up, running her fingers through her knotted hair. Her wild curls felt tacky, like drink or vomit had dried in them. Wouldn’t be the first time … except that little niggling voice told her she hadn’t drunk anything last night either.
    She sat up and her gaze fastened onto the bed. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the shredded sheets. Stuffing from the pillows dusted the surface of the torn material. “What …” She recalled once cutting up some of Harris’s shirts after a particularly nasty fight. Had she … Had they …
    Propping herself up on her fists, she crawled across the carpet to touch the bedsheets. The rips were jagged and rough, lacking the neat precision of scissor blades. This was more like claws, dragged through the cotton at random to leave holes gaping like open wounds.
    She inhaled sharply and gagged at the strange odour lingering in the room. Musky, raw, like bad meat … She covered her mouth with her hand and noticed the rusty red streaks on her skin.
    Shaking now, she raised her hand, staring at it with teary eyes. Blood. It had to be blood. Under her fingernails, across her knuckles, it could only be blood. Oh God, had Harris beaten her that badly?
    No. No, that didn’t fit. The foggy space in her memory cleared a little, filling with shouting and hitting, but nothing that would explain the blood. She touched her hair again, dreading the thought that it was blood that had dried in her curls. Knowing it was true.
    What had happened?
    What had she done?
    She lurched to her feet, screaming Harris’s name. She flung open the bedroom door, stumbled down into the living room and her screams stopped, cut off like the slamming of a coffin lid. The sight before her stole her voice.
    She fell to her knees, hands pressed to the floor. Blood on the freshly vacuumed carpet, on the freshly washed cushions, filling the room with a charnel house scent, bad meat, dead meat, Harris …
    Harris was sprawled on his back in the centre of the room. At first she couldn’t focus on him properly, couldn’t see exactly what had been done. And then it all sharpened into crystal clarity and she saw the shredded mess of his chest, the clots of gore on his face. Saw his mouth, frozen open in a silent scream. Glassy eyes, staring upwards. Hands curved into claws, as if he’d tried to fight his attacker off.
    Lizzie threw up. The sight, the smell, the terrible realisation that he was dead – murdered – it all hit her like a lightning strike. He was dead. He’d been murdered.
    What happened?
    What had she done?
    Panic gripped her like a vice, squeezing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t take her eyes off Harris, as much as she desperately wanted to. Why was he dead and she still alive? Did she do this?
    “No,” she gasped, digging her fingers into her hair, into her scalp. “No, no, no. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
    She forced herself to her feet. Police, she had to call the police. They’d figure it out, that was what they did, wasn’t it? Solved crimes, caught the bad guy. Because there had to be bad guy, she couldn’t have done this. She’d remember. She’d know.
    She was halfway to the phone when she realised she’d have to step over the body to get to it. The thought froze her for a second. She stood over Harris and that feeling of standing at a precipice returned, filling her with vertigo. She wasn’t on the edge of cliff this time though; she was on the edge of an abyss. She sucked a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and the scent of his flesh filled her nose.
    For a horrible second, it smelt good. Her stomach churned and she couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nausea.
    Sobbing, she closed her eyes and stepped over him. She grabbed the phone and scuttled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind herself. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold onto the