“He died a beautiful day in May” people would say when they talked about it later. And it was indeed. All the flowers stood in full bloom and the air was buzzing with the noises of all the newborn bumblebees. The sky was filled with swallows, chasing insects and chirping happily. The rapeseed had never been so yellow. The whole world was born anew, in sparkling colors, this day. The day he died. But as they talked about it, so many years later, they would never mention the feeling of dread that hung in the air. They always avoided speaking about the ominous feeling that did not quite match the birds’ happy sounds or the flowers’ bright colors. They never brought up the dark figure, silhouetted against the light blue sky.
But there it was, too far off in the distance to make out any details, the silhouette of a young man. His muscular shoulders were slumped, and he did not appear tall even though he possessed an impressive height. He stood completely still, not twitching so much as a muscle. If you would have been standing closer you would have seen his beautiful features, smeared with a fury that was slowly fading away, giving place for an overwhelming sadness. It was a sorrow that did not belong in such a young man’s face. But no one stood that close. In fact, there was no one to witness the scene taking place at all. For a long time he just stood there, staring at the beautiful scene before him. Some might wonder what he thought about, at that point. One might ask oneself if he tried to find an answer among the flowers, if he searched for some hidden reason to endure in the song of the hundred birds. But no one was there to ask him and no one was there to listen. Not that day or any other. Because of this no one will ever know.
Suddenly he started running. He stumbled and fell and jumped over fences but he continued nevertheless. Until he reached the middle of the field he ran. There he stopped, just as abruptly as he had begun.
The rapeseed had never been so yellow. The man’s heart had never been so dark. In vain he fell down to his knees, like a man in prayer. But the young man did not pray. He had not done so in a long time. He had ceased to believe many years ago. Either God did not exist or he had given up on him a long time ago. The young man did not know which was worst. If a man is not good enough for God, for what does he serve? If you are loved by no one, then what is worth living for? Do you even exist if there is no one left that would miss you if you went away? The young man did not know the answers, nor did he have any intention to find out.
“He died a beautiful day in May” the people would say when they talked about it afterwards. They would go on speaking about how all the birds sang for his soul in heaven and even the rapeseed seemed to bloom with more color. No one would ever mention the way his cold hand was curled around the knife or how all the color had left his face as he bled to death. He died, they would say, because even when he was dead, speaking of his suicide seemed too shameful. And they would never accept the fact that they could have done something more, something different, to change his destiny. People never do.