I was so grief-stricken, I decided to compose this short story.
~.~.~.~
The remote possibility of having seen the death god in his face had shaken his frame and he could bear no longer a second of impassivity from the shock of revelation.
With his eyes transfixed on the scene before him, he ventured a step back, the stagnant gaze dared not divest itself from the display of crimson shower vividly contrasted with whiteness of the snow; it seemed to scream of repulsion and absolute abhorrence, it seemed to scream of horror.
Thin threads of red stretched outwards, like the bony fingers of a rotten corpse, it edged away from the devoured and crept slowly towards the boy.
The boy however lifted not a gaze nor a glance at its advancement, for he only had eyes for the act of human atrocity which held him.
He felt that if he should look away or spin his heels to make a dash, someone or something might emerge from the decapitated bodies stacked on top the other as if these individuals had been, by some religious perversion, ordered to be thrown on a funeral pyre and burned alive.
An instant wave of fear penetrated ruthlessly through the numbness, fraying his nerves, and it coursed through his veins fast enough to shake away the cold and impel him another small retraction of his footsteps.
A disquiet breeze disturbed the stale air, like a silk velvet brushing against his skin, it discolored his face with the distasteful odor - decomposition and decay - which accompanied it and sapped what was left of his sanity.
The boy crumbled to his feet, wailing as he did, in bereavement as the shock had completely dissipated, giving way to the whole gamut of human emotions - grief, anguish, fear - that should have been locked away in a heart so young and so.. innocent.
He buried his face in his hands, kneeling, and rocked back and forth in delirious stupor.
And for minutes, hours, days, and weeks, the boy remained on his knees..