Excerpt: Ribbons Don't Kill

I can’t get the images out of my head. There’s a knock on the door and Karen gets it. I sit on the couch, numb, as the artistic director walks in.
“Are you okay?” Greg, the artistic director says.
What a stupid question. I just found a murder victim, and threw up. Obviously I’m not okay.
“Yeah.” I mumble, stupidly, but what else am I supposed to say? I’m sure he means physical condition, not emotional. That’s all he cares about. No broken bones, no major muscle problems, that’s all that matters in his mind.
He tries to talk to me about what I saw but I ignore him and just mumble either yes or no, whether that’s relevant to his interrogation or not.
Eventually he gives up and leaves. Greg, the artistic director, isn’t very sensitive. In my career as a pretend therapist, one of the things I’ve learned is that you have to give people some time before they’ll be willing to open up. It’s just a cardinal rule with pretty much anyone.
I feel pretty sick still, and I try so hard not to think of it, but the image of blood clouds my head.