Slice, slice, slice. Peel, peel, peel. It seemed all we ever did was cut potatoes in this house. My friend and I were visiting some crazy old bat's house, and peeling potatoes. I never really wanted to do it, but Rachelle insisted on it. She felt sorry for the old bat, she had told me, "How would you like to be a lonely spinster, sitting around your house disabled with no visitors?" Then she pursed her lips, and placed her hands on her hips and looked at me. When she looked at me like that, I knew I couldn't wiggle my way out of it.

Even now, after the heartbreak of the century, Rachelle put her devastated feelings after those of the old woman's. I sneaked a look at Rachelle, her eyes were brimming with tears as she peeled the potatoe in her hand. I went back to peeling when I heard a sharp intake of breath from my right side. Looking over, I saw Rachelle had nicked her thumb. It wasn't a deep cut, but the shape troubled me - it was in the shape of the letter V. V was the intial of her lover's first name. Vince.

A new wave of tears flowed down the woman who I admired's face. Taking a napkin I put it gently against the cut, and watched the blood seep in. I held in my guilt. I was the reason Vince had committed suicide. I had told him that Rachelle didn't love him anymore and that she wished he would go to hell. The very next day after I told him that, Rachelle stumbled upon his lifeless body dangling from the shower curtain rod from a noose. Tommorrow is when his family will hold his funeral.

I looked at Rachelle who was taking deep breaths. Wiping her eyes, she looked at the nick and at the knife. Suddenly a look of thoughtfulness came over her as she looked to and fro. Smiling she picked up the knife and went back to peeling potatoes. Half an hour later, our potatoe peeling was done. I took Rachelle home and made my way to my apartment.

The next morning, when I dropped by to take Rachelle to the funeral, I found her in the restroom. Her hands were curled around the same knife she had used to peel potatoes, and there were two deep slits on her left wrist from which a puddle of blood had stained the white porcelain. She had killed herself - no, I had killed her.

And all I could do was sit there and take in the scene as the same thought plagued me to the depths of my mind - I am a murderer.

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