She didn't remember walking home after it was over.

She remembered him dragging her into the building, his hand clamped over her mouth.

She remembered him pushing her down onto the bed.

She remembered the hard, cold, flat side of the knife pressed threateningly against her throat.

She remembered the fear.

She remembered the pain.

She remembered the anger at his taking what was not his to take.

She didn't remember throwing the rose-colored blouse and slacks she'd bought for their first, their last, their only date into the incinerator.

She didn't remember finally, when it was too late, snatching the knife from his hand.

She didn't remember his body lying on the floor.