The wooden scarecrow lies still on the ground. You are victorious but the regret sets in almost immediately.
He wasn't a real scarecrow, you try to tell yourself, but you know in your heart of hearts that you're lying to assuage your rapidly growing sense of self-loathing.
Inside that wooden scarecrows might have just been more wood, but he had a soul of straw just like any of the others.
You're a murderer. You have to live with that fact, or decide not to.