It felt like the world should end. His heart had stopped beating, his brain had stopped working, his limbs were no longer functioning; in fact, he lay spread-eagled in the grass, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a child’s rag-doll. Yet the grass kept growing, green and springy, each individual blade dappled with light from the rising sun. Like the stripes of a tiger, the shadows cut across the gently swaying grass. Always growing.

And as he sat in the damp, dewy grass, trying desperately to wash his hands of the blood, he could almost feel it growing, towering high above him, engulfing him in its dark, wet, beauty. Miniscule drops of dew, glimmering in the watery sunlight, clung the tips of the grass as only a rich man clings to his money, hovering between grass and ground, shaking precariously in the wind, gambling between life and death. Yet this morning, the precious little droplets were tinted scarlet; the unmistakeable crimson red of blood.

Blood, spattered across the meadow. Blood, flecks of which had reached even this guilty, homicidal being. And yet the sun was rising in the east and would set in the west. Shouldn’t something be different today? As the sun rose over this twisted, warped man, living in a twisted, warped world? Another’s soul had left the Earth for good, shouldn’t that mean something?

No. All it meant was that the sun would keep rising, the sky would be blue and the grass would keep growing. The waves would keep roaring, the sailors keep sailing. The murderers would keep murdering, their victims would keep dying and none of it would make a bit of difference. The grass would always keep growing, he thought distractedly, as he rubbed at his hands furiously. The world would keep spinning, what of it? Tall and proud, the grass would stand to attention until the wind came along, blowing it down, rippling smoothly across the ground.

Or until a body arched gracefully backwards, blood spurting out of him in all directions; he would crush the grass, it would surrender to his weight, but it would keep growing. It would keeping inching slowly upwards over the years, long and fresh, bowing to the wind when the wind felt it right to come along and ruffle the man’s hair, sweeping it forlornly over his wide, staring eyes. For the man was but a boy, far too young to die. It truly felt as if time should stand still, that the whole universe should mourn this tragedy. Yet the world would barely register this injustice, and the grass would keep growing.

Well, I hope you enjoyed it, please leave a review! By the way, I know the 'too young to die' line is VERY cliched, so you don't need to tell me... ;D