8A/N: Hai everybody, its just a strange little idea I had that turned into this twisted story. Thanks to The Blue Truth for the idea, and Des for being an amazing beta! Review, please!
She twirls around the red umbrella, softly humming as she walks across the rainy Manhattan Street, strangely still full of color through the drab of the downpour. She's walking and waiting, going to the nearby Starbucks to meet up with her friend.
She's twirling the umbrella this way and that, and she's made out a small rhythm with her feet, She hums a melody her mother taught her, a happy tune, a simple one of joy. And then, before she can stop herself, she's singing, singing the lyrics to her song:
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you'll have cake,
and all the pretty little horses.
Black and bay, dapple and gray,
Coach and six little horses,
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby,
When you wake, you'll have cake,
and all the pretty little horses.
Way down yonder, down in the meadow,
There's a poor wee little lamby.
The bees and the butterflies picking' at its eyes,
the poor wee thing cried for her mammy.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you'll have cake,
and all the pretty little horses.
It's a beautiful song, and soon enough, people are listening. They are tearing out of the routine of their days to listen to a plain little girl sing and twirl around her umbrella. They drop their purses and drown in the innocent voice of a fourteen year old, singing a sweet lullaby to the world.
She's closing her eyes, twirling not noticing the people. Not noticing the man creep up with the gun in his hand. Not hearing the screams of terror as he pulls the trigger.
She falls. She falls on her umbrella, and her neck bleeds onto the already red material. The man walks away, feeling guiltless. He feels no pain, no agony, he feels nothing.
He feels guiltless of murder. But Samantha Bowers is no longer.