Tug the Heart Strings, by Daniel Ritter
I know it’s not me. I’m not doing it. I’m not crazy.
Well, yeah, I mean, I am; my body is doing it. But it’s not me. Not my doing.
Even if it were me, against my knowing, then, when it happens, my muscles would flex, right? Because when you move, at all, that’s how it works.
It’s not that.
I feel it pushing …my bones… to articulate my arms around, and my legs. My jaw. It’s manipulating my bones to throw my body around.
So, it wasn’t me doing the killing.
It’s him, that distant puppetmaster.
He’s the murderer.