Quite Contrary
He can only see the back of her; she sits, legs crossed at the ankles, on the swing. The purple dress she loved so much seems to hang off her, more than it did in life. Her long brown hair hangs down her back, slightly tangled as always. Her feet don't touch the ground – her legs never had the chance to grow long enough to get anywhere near it. Her face is hidden, but he can hear her laughing softly, singing to herself.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary...
He still remembers her singing it in the garden as she balanced along the back wall. Where is that house now? Burnt to the ground? Nothing more than rubble?
How does your garden grow?
Her hands grip the rope holding up the thin plank of wood she sits on, but the skin is paler than ever before, covered in thin blue veins. He walks slowly forward, so he can see her face. When he sees it, he swallows the lump in his throat threatening to become a sob.
With silver bells and cockle shells...
Can a heart break twice? Her eyes are rolled back into her head; all he can see is the whites. The gunshot wound in her forehead trickles blood down her face, dropping onto the fabric of the dress and staining it a darker colour. He hates it. While alive, she never allowed that dress to get dirty. He doesn't want to see it on her, doesn't want her corpse wearing it.
And pretty maids all in a row...
"What's wrong, Daddy?" Her eyes roll forward, and she stares at him. "Why so serious?" He stares down at his hand, where the gun has already appeared. Impossible... He didn't kill her! The mob did!
So why is she staring at him so accusingly? Why does his heart race, every beat causing his guilt to crush him?
Mary, Mary, quite contrary...
Her lips never move. And yet, her voice echoes in the air. "Why did you do this to me?" she whispers, her voice choked, blood red tears dribbling down her cheeks. "Why?"
"I didn't... I didn't kill you!"
How does your garden grow?
"Hannah," he says softly, stumbling back. "Hannah, I..." His voice fades away, simply because he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to apologise.
"Why? Why did I have to die?" She smiles at him, cocking her head to the side.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispers, continuing to back away from her.
"Why? Why? Why?" she screams. He turns and runs, the rain suddenly pouring from the sky soaking his clothes. The mud slows him down, but he keeps running, running until he falls...
With silver bells and cockle shells...
And Jonathan Crane sits up in his bed at Arkham Asylum, sobbing. He can still hear her voice, haunting him.
And pretty maids all in a row...
Alright, so that's it. If you want me to continue and do a back story of Hannah and Jonathan, review.