The sting of the white concrete under foot. Gazing up occasionally, passers-by wave with good intentions, surrounded by the gray cold clouds, I find their intentions hard to receive.

The wind playing with the hem of my white dress and taunting my unraveling black braided hair. I look at my watch, not so much gazing at the time but rather looking, hating, my distorted reflection in the watches intricate face. My black eyes, surrounded by dark, deathly circles. My cheeks blushed with red and my lips a dark, deep crimson, like someone had pressed them upon a newly cut wound. All encompassed in my skin, like the moon, as pale and as bright as it ever was. My dirty feet casually pacing the burning white surface.

No less that three hours ago I was being guided by the boy into the grasses. The grassy fields circling our town, a common play place for boys like him. His black curly hair bouncing atop his head. His blue striped tee-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders and his young slender hips barely holding up the heavy brown material that made his shorts. Running, laughing and holding his pants up awkwardly he called me to him.

He had found a small sort of pond. Its green murky water enticing and urging him to bathe in its uninhabited water. Soon after, the water had welcomed me as well.

After our swim we ventured to a familiar tree. 'Our Tree' he would fondly call it. Drying off as the storm clouds slowly crept upon us. Telling his dozing eyes stories of Kings and Queens the time quickly slipped away. As the hovering clouds began to grow closer and closer we decided to race back to the pond

The boy, being considerably younger, would never be a match for me, yet he was trying so hard. The kilometre between 'Our Tree' and the pond was a race to a treasure and the boy was pulling ahead.

Drawing ever so closely to the pond, the boy tripped. As he fell the world moved at an unlikely speed, letting me take in every detail yet not allowing me to move.

The boy fell forward, pushing his arms in front of him in a terrified fashion. His ankle, still wrinkled and clean from his bathe in the pond, now rolled on a raised rock. The snapping of his bone followed directly by the scream from his panicked lungs. The scream chilled my blood and raised the hairs on the back of my neck and arms. His head fell, his neck moving awkwardly.

Before it happened, even in those few split seconds, I could sense the dreadful outcome. I could see the rock directly beneath his head; the point of the rock so imperfectly protruding it would certainly pierce his immature skull. I could not move, I just watched helplessly.

Dragging my shaken mind back to the present time, once again the friendly nature of the town is obvious, but this time it bring me to tears, smudging the dark circles of my eyes. I pick up my pace, rushing toward the familiar structure that is our home.

Automatically switching on the kettle, lightly pushing on the radio and throwing myself onto the disheveled bed. I fall to a deep sleep, not making the coffee as intended nor fulfilling a favored past time of watching the rain and counting the distance of the storm.

After what feels like hours I wake only to notice it is not quite dark, the house has cool and is filled by the sound of the radio. Lifting myself from the bed and walking again to the kettle, i words of the radio announcer fill my ears, deafening yet somehow so clear.

"breaking news. In our small country town a young boy has been found out in the south grasses. We are not able to reveal his name but we can inform you that the boy, wearing a blue striped shirt has been brutally murdered. NO attempt was made to conceal this..."

As the boy was walking towards the pond, I untied the black ribbon from my neatly braided hair and tightened it around his neck.

His black curly hair twisted amongst the grass. From green to crimson, the grass wilting with the heat of his blood, his body. A fine blue line stained around his neck and his limp arms sprawled over the harsh rocks. A not too hidden rock close by corresponding with the impression in the side of his head.

My having just finished school, high school, was a perfect yet heartbreaking time for our mother to die. Being almost nineteen i was expected, by myself and others around, to adopt and care for my brother. Playing in the fields, exploring, became a Friday afternoon ritual. Yet in my mind was always the thought of what could of been; university, a job, a life consisting of more than frolicking through grass.

Kissing his forehead and feeling the ever increasing chill of his body reminded me that it is not the boy but rather an object of my jealousy. The young face vacant yet enormously pained. The blue striped tee-shirt, barely recognizable and his shoes flung into the shallow pond of the murky water. I remember what I've done