The first thing I felt when I realised I had killed my friend was shock. At first, shock that I was still alive. Murder is such a deeply ingrained taboo that it seemed inconceivable that some Power wouldn't reach down from the sky and strike me down. And yet I was still standing, still alive and aware. Then came the shock at what I had done. It makes you tremble to the core to realise that you have killed. To know that you are capable of killing.
Slowly, my head cleared and I became consciously aware. Murder is mindless, rarely a deliberate thoughtful choice. Rather, it is a psychic supernova, an implosion of overwhelming emotion that undermines deliberate thought and which then rebounds outwards to descend upon the victim. Fear, panic, atavistic feelings that emerge from the primeval centre of the brain to swamp the civilised layers of decency and rationality.
As realisation returned, I jogged to the nearest phone box to call the police. Along the way I came across two men, walking, and slowed down so that I didn't appear suspicious. Why? Out of their sight, I ran to the phone, dialled 999 and said, "I think I've killed my mate.." They asked me to wait the few minutes for a car to fetch me.