She never was and could never, nor could I, and I haven't

I have killed her. Just now. I'm still shocked and I still haven't washed my hands. It's weird. She smells of oranges. She looks like a cartoon. She's beautiful. I'm not sorry. I could have fell in love with her. Some time. Some day in the future. Some weird re-encounter. Oh, but we have never met. I could have teached her how to dance and how to sew a sock, and she could have told me what makes her sleep and what she likes in sex. She liked Elton John and Jackson Five, I've figured, and her toothpaste was strawberry flavoured. I was nervous, never got to kiss her mouth and when she was lying on the floor in that strange angle I still felt her breaths drying my eyes. Her hair looked beautiful spread upon the wooden floor and her nose seemed to be still catching and releasing air. She looked lonely. Never more beautiful. Still she did not look peaceful, I wonder if she ever was. Her scent always reminded me of fire and her fingers of rape and murder. I think she was never peaceful. I see her in a tale of lost love, a lover that went away, a love that could not be, could never have been. She was doomed. So am I. I do not love her, and could never. She looks like a piece of wood, she's so static. What may be the story of that tatoo above the left hip and how old were those trainers under her bed? She could have been the lover of Napoleon and the whole curse of History changed by their thorny separation. She could never have loved me. She's dead now, it' ok.