The day the young boy put an end to his life, she was the only audience. It happened when she was busy collecting sea-shells. Not the typical romantic setting you have in mind though. Yes, it was a perfect day for a stroll on the sea-side. Friendly sun rays warmed the sea and sand, and kindly allowed a few cool breezes through. The water was that turquoise blue you only see in touristic posters. The few footprints that had disturbed the smoothness of the picture were wiped away with one gentle wave. Actually, given her reclusive inclining, it might just have been that nature, on her arrival, had tipped all the elements involved to be extra good to her that day. But she wasn't there to look at any of that. She needed sea-shells, and once she had what she needed, she'd be done and out of there.
A feeble attempt at mechanizing an un-mechanizable life. And when she saw the warning signs, the boy's dysfunctional limbs, his determined plunge, his helpless screams, nothing in the mental manual she scanned told her how to deal with this unusual interruption. So she went on collecting sea-shells, giving each one a quick examination for any faults before deciding if it's a keeper. She did this while she watched his death from the corner of her eye.
But two out-of-the-ordinary thoughts popped in her mind while she did, before she waved them away:
1. What was the last thing he told anybody, and
2. Who will be her audience?