Her hand lay fallen on the blades of grass, not quite dead yet not alive either. To her, the world was a blur. A brown bug slowly shuffled across her arm. The sun had not yet appeared from behind the line of trees, and the cold night air still tugged at her clothes. The birds had begun to chirp, and her last day came. She twitched her hand, unable to move it. Catatonic. Another person pushed at her side. An effort to roll her over. Yet her body would not move. Warm hands pushed hard against her shoulder, slowly peeling her from the grass. Her body felt cold, as though any life had been drained from it. The tangy stench of iron assaulted her. Drowning her thoughts in a sea of red. The person started to scream for help, as her existence started to fade. And then the person let go of her. And her hand crashed back down, landing in the blades of grass, where it would remain.