A/N: This is short. Sorry bout that. But that's how it's going to go. I've never really written Belarus before so...yeah I'm sorry if she sounds OC-ish. I tried my best. But hey, in my defense, I think anyone would kinda go nuts if they were told what Natalya was slapped with.

UPDATE: Again, if you didn't see this in the prologue, I switched the characters. Ms. Natalya (Belarus) became the leading lady. Sort of. POV switches a lot. UK was cool at first, and then I felt like he didn't fit the role I wanted him to play, so I switched them out. Sorry about that to those who were waiting for USUK action. If you want to stop reading here, I understand.

Disclaimer: I don't own APH!

Chapter One: Sparrow

Who killed Cock Robin?

"I," said the Sparrow,

"With my little bow and arrow,

"I killed Cock Robin."

She woke up with the worst headache she had ever had in her life. Or not necessarily woke up so much as gain some semblance of consciousness while her eyes were still glued shut. She felt sticky and dirty. And she really, really wanted to go home…wherever that was. She began to feel something cold on her rear and back, suggesting she was leaning against some sort of brick wall and sitting on cold concrete. Not the best bed she ever had. Gingerly, she opened his eyes and the first thing she saw was blood on his hands.

Blood everywhere actually. Her clothes were practically drenched in it. And clearly, they were not hers. She found herself holding a gun, cold and metallic in her hands. Oh my.

Her first reaction was to hyperventilate, to panic, but she soothed himself quickly enough. Freaking out would get her nowhere. She needed to be calm. Rational. Like she had always been…right? She forced herself to take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds. She exhaled slowly and repeated the process until she had some sort of calm settle over her. M-maybe it was a joke. Today was…today was…Easter…? No…no…it was another day. …Sometime in October? She couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember much of anything actually. Not her family…if she had one, not her friends, her job, her home address. Fuck. She couldn't even remember her name.

Her head began to ache again, and she tried to massage the sides of her forehead only to hiss in pain. She pulled them away and found them covered in blood. Her blood. She laughed, voice cracking and hitting hysterics.

Concussions weren't a very good sign if she could recall. She needed help, badly. So she forced herself to stand up, which was no easy feat when the world continued to spin and the wall was doing the can-can in front of you. She was in a dark alley. It smelled of cigars recently smoked and of trash filled with rotten meat. I do hope my past self didn't choose this as a good place to sleep on her own, she thought idly, as her brain tried to adapt and wrap itself around this awful predicament.

Staggering, she leaned heavily onto the brick wall to carry himself along the dark alley. She walked for a bit before finding an old broken mirror also leaned against the wall. Curious, she looked into it and found a woman, with sharp, elegant features and unnatural long silver hair, stained with blood. She was wearing a white dress shirt with a blue skirt that reached her knees. She was coated in blood. It wasn't hers, that much she was sure.

She tried not to think about it.

She was close to the end of the alley, opening up to the street. It was very dark out and the streetlamps were rather dim too. But perhaps she would be lucky enough to find some nighttime stroller to help her. She called out to see if anyone was out there, "Hello?"

No response.

Louder this time, "I need help!"

The following reply was so quiet she could barely hear it. It sounded pained, like when a person is trying to speak when he's ill, "Na…a…"

"Excuse me?" she replied nervously back. "Who? Speak up! I can't hear you," she commanded, feeling a wave unease wash over her. Something sounded painfully familiar about that voice. The voice sounded so sad, and she wanted to comfort it, to tell it that everything was going to be alright.

"N…a…pl…don't…" The woman stepped forward, moving even faster at the sound of the voice. She forgot the soreness in her legs, the pain in her head and walked towards the source. She could feel a word forming in her mind. A very, familiar word.

Natalya. Her name? Yes. It fit. She was sure that was her name. Hope swelled in her chest. Surely this person would explain what was happening, and guide her the nearest hospital for care. It was okay. It was going to be okay.

She tripped on a leg.

It wasn't attached.

She looked up, then screamed in terror and threw herself away from the body – or what was left of it. The right leg was severed from its torso while the left arm was hanging off of it by the barest thread of flesh hanging from the joints. There were three holes in the body's chest, one from a gun mark and the other from a stab wound. The head cut had been sliced so cleanly it appeared smooth, like butter really. The blood ran red. Fresh. So very, very fresh.

She vomited. Over and over.

And she cried. She didn't know why. But it hurt so, so much. Some part of her brain was somehow able to register that something awful had happened to this…person…she deeply cared about? This person was someone she loved very, very much. And so she continued to cry, unable to hide the tears running down her face.

And soon enough the sound attracted the attention of those passing by. She looked up from her hysterical sobbing to see a young man walk over. He was young and small in figure, with big, amber eyes widening in horror and surprise. The moment their eyes connected the young man ran off, whipping out his cell phone and screaming for help. That was good…right?

She scrambled to grab a handhold on the wall to pull herself to her feet. God…the pain…it was still there, insistent and unyielding. She slowly but surely lifted herself off of the ground, pulling herself out of a puddle of bile and blood. She staggered out of the alley, hand tightly clenched over her gun. She knew she shouldn't have taken it with her, but she felt…safe. She needed it. She needed it, to be safe.

She must have been sitting in that alley for longer than she thought, because she heard sirens and soon enough, police cars drove by and stopped next to her, red and blue lights flashing.

She waved at them. In retrospect, it might not have been a good idea to wave the hand that was holding the gun.

"Freeze, bitch!"

"Put the gun down!"

"And place your hands where we can see them!"

The voices seemed to come simultaneously, creating a cacophony of voices that added to the din from the sirens. Her head hurt.

Hell , she didn't even get the chance to put the damned thing before she felt something slip through her wrist. She cried out from the pain and fell down. She held onto it, clutching her arm tightly to her chest. Blood. Blood. She began hyperventilating.

"Fuck…damn it Bonnefoy!"

"It was an accident, she wasn't putting it down!"

The voices around her became muffled, confused. Before she knew it, the world faded to black.

She's running in an all too familiar park. She's not afraid, she's playing with…someone. Every time she turns around she can see nothing but a black shadow. It's someone she knows very well, someone she cherishes more than anything.

"…give up. I will win and you'll have to kiss the dog AND wash the dishes!"

The shadow doesn't respond but she knew that the shadow is smiling. It seems to be saying something, but it isn't very clear. Just garbled speech. But even if she understood, Natalya knew it would be nothing but nonsense. The other was just that kind of idiot. Endearing but still an idiot.

"Don't taint my brother with your putrid fried slop!" How dare he threaten to feed her darling brother that trash he called food? It wasn't worth the dirt underneath her dead mother's fingernails.

The softest laughter can be heard. Eventually Natalya reaches the top of the hill and raises her arms up in the air in victory. "I win! And you call yourself an officer…" she trails off. She turns around to see the shadow simply sitting there, a few feet away. It doesn't respond.

"…? What's wrong?"

It growls. And the sun seems to fade away. Natalya feels fear grip her heart. A deep garbled voice booms across the landscape. It's shrill and broken by sharp giggles. "It's your fault Natalya. Always all your fault…" the voice above laughs.

"You're wrong! I didn't do it! I didn't kill him!" she yells back. It laughs at her.

"Tick. Tock. It's 12 o'clock," it sang,

"You're wrong, you're wrong! Liar, liar, LIAR!" she screams at the top of her lungs, but the sound is lost in the windy maelstrom that follows. Natalya now stands alone, holding a fragile candle. She is standing in a warehouse that is suspiciously familiar. It smells…horrible. And looking down on the ground, a puddle of blood is congealing at her feet. A room, a dark room. The only other illumination comes from an oil lamp in the corner. The body is sitting there, ripped apart as she saw it last. Mouths have erupted all over its skin, singing that damn song over and over…

"A tisket, a tasket…a little yellow basket…I wrote a letter to my love, and on the way I dropped it…I dropped it, I dropped it…" they all sing. She steps away and backs into a wall. But the wall is bleeding. Eyes of the brightest blue and hollowed hazel sprout all over it, cold and accusing. They have no mouths but the message rings loud and clear.

Murderer.

"I didn't do it...Shut up!" she yells frantically, shielding her ears against the sound.

The words won't come out anymore. It's as if there's something cutting off her words. She does the only thing she can do. Run away. The voices don't stop. In fact, they're louder than ever. She is covered in blood. Just like before. She doesn't know what's happening. All she knows is that she must run. She must get out.

"I dropped it… I dropped it…" they sing. A record is playing in the background. It's broken. The sound is off-key, the voices fluctuate from painfully high eerily low.

"You're lying! You're lying!" She screams, smashing against the walls. They're closing in. She's suffocating. She punches the shrinking room with her bare fists, ignoring the blood running down her hands.

"A little girl picked it up and put it in her pocket…" She thinks she recognizes the sound now. A phonograph. It's here, somewhere, And she's going to smash it when she finds the damned thing.

"Don't look at me- don't you dare look fucking down on me!" The walls' eyes glare down at her. They don't believe her. "Shut up, your damn eyes!" A fuzzy background noise is added to the din. They laugh at her, the eyes, the mouths, the hidden phonograph. "I'M NOT CRAZY!"

Natalya screamed. She sat up. Or tried to. As it turned out, she had been strapped to the bed she had been laying in. "Where…where am I?" she stuttered, her voice was hoarse, worn from overuse. Weak. She suddenly felt incredibly disgusted with herself and she cleared her face of emotion to hide the turmoil from within her. As calmly as possible, she looked around. She was in a sterile, white hospital room. There was a single barred window, decorated with plain white curtains. In fact, everything in the room was disgustingly white. She had the urge to splatter it with color, to fill those empty spaces all around her.

Thoughts of smashing the walls with paint with…who again? She wasn't sure. But someone close would paint the room with her. Like he promised to do at home. An image flashed through, a memory of a smile brighter than the sun. The corners of her lips twitched upwards. She dropped it immediately upon realizing she wasn't alone.

A lean Oriental…man was sitting at her bed, making idle notes on his clipboard. The long hair had thrown her off at first, and the delicate features made her think that it was another woman instead of a male before her. After finally clicking his pen, he spoke, "You're in the hospital ward of St. Ives Penitentiary, Ms. Arlovskaya. Do you not remember what happened?"

"Arlovskaya…? St. Ives?" Now she was really confused. They were names that were really, really familiar.

The man tutted quietly, "Worse than I thought…" he muttered, before putting down the clipboard and pulling a thick manila folder. He sifted through the contents for quite a while before making a satisfied noise and pulling out a pile of photos and setting them in his lap.

"Allow me to explain, Ms. Natalya Arlovskaya," the man said slowly, "My name is Dr. Yao Wang and you are in St. Ives Penitentiary - temporarily. You are due to arrive in court on Oct. 25 at 8:00 AM for your trial in which you have been tried with the murders of Harris Jackson-" He produced a picture of a hazel eyed, dark haired man with an obnoxious smile and a bandage across his nose. He was holding up a small girl with curly hair and bows. His daughter, Natalya realized. "-Charlotte Thompson-" A photo of a young woman with her hair tied off to the side with a bow that said good luck was smiling demurely in the photo. She was holding a paintbrush and was covered in paint from her work. "Roderich Edelstein-" An aristocratic looking man with a severe expression sat at a grand piano, his face pulled down into a frown. She felt odd…out of place. Their faces…they were familiar…?

The doctor hesitated before pulling out the last picture, "And the murder of Alfred F. Jones." The blonde man was standing in the sun, his hands on his hips and a sunny smile on his classically handsome face, those blue sapphires seeming to light up when Natalya's eyes fell on to the photo.

Yes…yes now she could see. The memories leaked through, slowly but surely. Her head began to throb painfully and his heart felt like a weight in her chest. Alfred… She could not remember much, just bits and pieces…a smile, a lewd joke and a loud bellowing down the street, the sweetest kiss and the softest touch.

She felt a lump in her throat. She could feel something trying to rise out, but she ruthlessly crushed it, kept it under. Instead she replaced it with anger, rage and she somehow, managed to quench the frogs threatening to spew out of her mouth.

When she had managed to compose herself, the doctor asked her a few more questions. Was her head still hurting? Obviously. Did she remember anything else? Aside from Alfred, nothing much. He filled a few gaps for her. She worked at an insurance company. She was the youngest child with an older brother and an elder sister (the fact had sent a rather unpleasant shiver through her). She lived on 145 Serena Lane by herself after receiving a restraining order from her brother. She had no friends at work worth noting. Figures. No one would want to associate or even be mentioned with her.

The doctor poked and prodded her about more, massaging her temple and jotting down notes while making that annoying "aru" and tutting sound each time. How she longed to cram that damn pen down his measly throat.

"Well, Ms. Arlovskaya, I'm afraid you seem to have a nasty concussion coupled with amnesia." Well no shit. "The bullet wound went cleanly through your wrist and miraculously, it seems to have passed without any complications, no bone fractures or cut tendons. You, ma'am, are a fairly lucky woman," he said in a clipped tone before adding, "Aside from the fact that you've been caught of course."

Spontaneously, Natalya spat, "I didn't do it."

The Chinese man looked up, raising an eyebrow, "Oh? Do you remember anyone else there at the scene of the crime?" he asked. He seemed skeptical, but all the same leaned forward in curiosity.

Natalya struggled to remember. She didn't…she did…No. She didn't do it. While the memories were hazy, something in her heart said that she didn't do it.

She was innocent.

But there was no way to prove it. All she could mutter was, "I didn't do it. I didn't do it…" This elicited an exasperated sigh from the doctor watching her.

"That will not hold up well in court Ms. Arlovskaya. Perhaps your lawyer will do better at formulating your case," he said, sighing. "He will be coming here at around – 1:30." At the angered look on his patient's face he quickly added, "You'll be unstrapped and allowed to move granted that you behave yourself. An officer or two will be here to watch you. After you're done you'll be restrained to the bed once more."

Natalya laughed bitterly, "What? Think I'll stab them with a spork? Run off half naked in this damn gown with nothing but my bare hands and my breasts to barter for my escape?"

Dr. Wang was unaffected by the outburst, only looking back at her calmly, "Don't take it personally, it's all a part of protocol after all." He checked his watch. "I really must be going now. Your lawyer will see you after lunch. Good afternoon, Ms. Arlovskaya." With that, the doctor left, leaving the poor amnesiac with only her broken thoughts to occupy her.

The doctor seemed in a hurry, was he more nervous than she thought? A part of her hissed that it was good. That man should know better than to anger her should he ever dare question her innocence.

But the way that bastard looked at her…the way he looked at her as if she had already lost her mind. She was right. He was lying. She would never hurt Alfred, never ever. She was right. She was innocent. "I'm not crazy," she said aloud. The words echoed throughout the room, ringing through her ears. They sounded hollow, broken. "I'm not crazy," she repeated, struggling to keep her voice level, calm. She thought she heard a scoff. She heard them laughing at her.

"Bastards!" She struggled against her bonds, trying to set herself free. But it was useless to try and break through with these damn belts. So she stilled, biding her time. Surely…surely that body couldn't have been Alfred. The doctor was wrong. They always were. Yes. The head…the head was missing wasn't it? It couldn't have been Alfred. He was waiting for her, outside and yelling at these idiots to let her go, that they had made a mistake.

Her eyes wandered about, desperate to look at something to distract her. The walls were bare except for a single clock in the corner. Tick tock. Tick tock.

12:00 is a bad hour. When it's one again she will feel better and all the bad things will be forgotten. That's when Alfred will come, to make her better again. Her head wouldn't be fuzzy and odd, and her Alfred would no longer be so blurry in her mind.

Tick tock. Tick Tock.

Alfred was taking quite a long time. Those damn doctors must have been holding him up. Those idiots wouldn't know the difference between a needle and pencil. Granted Alfred probably wouldn't know either, but at least his heart was in the right place.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Alfred was coming. He was. She could see him. There, passing the window. His voice carried over to her ears, loud and clear. He was yelling about…something. Probably bashing heads together now. Any minute and he would rush in, release her, and carry her out like he should, kissing her on the forehead and promising to make dinner and wash the dishes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Alfred isn't coming.

He's coming.

No he's not.

You're a dirty liar.

I'm telling the truth, Natalya, stop running away.

I am not!

He's dead-.

Shut up!

He's gone.

I will kill you.

…

I don't need a piece of me that does not believe in my Alfred.

…Our Alfred is dead.

Tock tock tock. Tick. Tock.

The door slid open and heavy, familiar footsteps made their way towards her. She turned her head. "Alfred…?" It wasn't him. She struggled against her bonds, shut her eyes tight in an attempt to close them off from reality, nightmare, whatever this was she didn't want to see it anymore.

"Go away! You're not real, you're not real," she chanted over and over, struggling and trying to escape. It bubbled, as if trying to speak. She would not listen.

"Wake up…please…wake up…"

She struggled more, shoving herself to the side, "Never! I-!"

She felt sharp pain flash across her cheek and her eyes snapped open. She had been asleep…?

Her eyes focused on a young woman, perhaps younger than her, with bright amber eyes and brown horse tails leaning over her. She gave her a crooked smile, before dropping it quickly as if she had done something wrong. "Er…didn't mean to hit you that hard. Just...you were talking funny in your sleep and stuff and I didn't know how to wake you," she rambled. The girl, now noted to be a police officer judging by her uniform, pulled out a key and looked at her cautiously. "…Now don't be trying anything funny, I have a weapon here and I'm not afraid to use it." Her tone made this statement sound anything but threatening. Had Natalya been in a better mood perhaps she would have humored the girl.

"I know what a taser is. I have amnesia, not Down's Syndrome you idiot," she snapped, glaring at her captor. The girl flinched.

"It is reassuring to know that murder has not dampened your sense of humor, dear," a new voice chimed in. It was infuriatingly familiar and a part of her mind said that perhaps it would be better to simply spit venom and pretend to be deranged after all. If only to get rid of this…this….

"Ello. Remember me Ms. Arlovskaya?" A man walked in wearing a crisp black suit and very distinct eyebrows. Something about him tickled her memory…

"Nat, I'd like you to meet my good old bestie, Arthur!" Alfred said, as he gesticulated widely towards the smaller, grumpier man standing at the door.

The dour-looking man crossed his arms, "Must you shove your woman in my face? Is that any way to treat a lady?" He extended a hand, "My full name is Arthur Kirkland, a pleasure to meet you." The words are stiff, insincere. His eyes are as cold as everyone else. They will never be friends.

"Kirkland." His face twitched into a frown but was quickly smoothed over by a neutral expression.

"Not so much of an amnesiac then. But it's only polite to introduce myself, Arthur Kirkland at your service," he said the last part like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, "I'm your attorney for this case, Ms. Arlovskaya, or should I say Miss Nursery Rhyme Ripper?"

She pushed herself as far as the belts would go, "That is not my name," she spat.

He clicked his tongue, "Of course."

She seethed at the sarcasm, "Shut up, caterpillar," she snapped, struggling against her bonds. She felt a surge of triumph at the angry twitch the man made at the words. The victory did not last long. So she moved on to wondering if she would be able to melt the man with her eyes alone. Those eyes…the green…she hated it. Hated it so, so much.

The officer, timid little mouse, stepped forward, trying to put on a brave face. Natalya knew very well how to scare people away with looks alone. The girl faltered. "It's fine Officer Bonnefoy, it would be far better to keep her restrained I would think."

The mouse's eyes darted between the bastard and her. There was a flicker of pity in her eyes and Natalya hissed at her. "Y-yes…" she cleared her throat, "Yeah uh... Just…call me when there's trouble. I have the needles right here."

He waved her away impatiently, "Yes, yes now go. This is a sensitive matter between my client and I and the situation is tenuous as it is. No thanks to an officer overstepping her boundaries."

The mouse growled, "Leave off! You weren't there! You didn't see how she-!" she stopped herself, realizing who was in the room and stayed quiet.

"It would behoove you to leave officer. Before you cause any more damage." What a bastard. The mouse's eyes flared but she left the room, her fists curled tightly and her jaw clenched shut.

"Now…Dr. Yao wasn't very clear on what you could remember, so shall I debrief you for a short time?" He didn't wait for her to answer, swiftly pulling out files from his briefcase and reciting the words out loud. "Natalya Braginsky-"

She cringed at the name. Flashes of memory went through her, none of them pleasant. "Arlovskaya," she interrupted sharply, "You will address me as Arlovskaya."

"It hardly matters much," Kirkland added dryly, "Braginsky - Arlovskaya. What does matter – is this," he produced several photos. A bloodied gun, a rusty saw, papers filled with statistics and finally, her. She saw a woman, covered liberally in blood and wearing a blank expression; soulless, heartless. "Now do you understand?" he stated coldly, as he then flipped to a newspaper clipping. The headlines read, 'NURSERY RHYME RIPPER' BEHIND BARS. The following article held a brief passage of the case before making callous statements of which death sentence she would receive, the gun, the electric chair, or the lethal injection. "You were found with the murder weapon at the scene of the crime," he said simply as he folded up the articles.

Her mouth went slightly dry. She could hear his gentle laughter ringing through her ears as she muttered aloud, "No...No this can't be." She blinked rapidly. A trick. It was all a trick.

He groaned, as if he had heard the same words before. "Look, I don't have time to listen to your drivel," he scoffed. "I'll be frank and suggest that you plead guilty and plead by reason of insanity-"

"I am not insane!" she snapped. "I refuse to do this. I am not guilty and I will not buy into your lies you filthy bastard!"

The man gave her a long-suffering look. Not an ounce of sympathy. He stood up, threatening her. She didn't hear it. "Ms. Arlovskaya I'm warning you-!"

"Shut up! Shut! UP! It's all a lie! You're lying to me you filthy, fucking pig!"

She still couldn't believe he did it. But she supposed she should have known better. Her cheek was still stinging and he was breathing heavily. The anger wasn't so well hidden anymore. His voice was dripping with venom, "Unless you want to spend the next seven hours watching unicorns run across your room with a cloth stuffed down your throat, do shut up!" the lawyer snapped.

She didn't speak, instead, she spit in his face. "Go to hell."

He looked seconds from slapping her again. She wasn't afraid. She would not submit, not confess to a sin she did not commit. Let hell freeze over before that happened. But before anything could happen, the mouse scampered in. "Kirkland…sir keep it down! The orderlies are cutting your time, they don't want you in here for too long if you're going to keep this up," she warned.

He put down his hand and grunted in response. The mouse didn't leave the room this time, standing in the corner and watching with those big, beady eyes. Why didn't she appear earlier, when this disgusting worm was spouting lies? It didn't matter she supposed, they were all dirty animals, all liars.

The bastard looked down upon her contemptuously and spoke slowly as if to a dull, rather annoying child, "Let's face facts here, you were caught at the scene of the crime with the murder weapon. You were there, with Al's –" his voice cracked, "Mr. Jones' body, splattered and cut up…" he paused, his shoulders continuing to tremble, his eyes becoming oddly shiny, "And you…you think you can get away with this if you scream and cry innocence? Don't make me laugh!"

She spit in his face. "Don't patronize me Kirkland!" she hissed, "I know how court works, but I will not confess to something I did not do!" Silence.

He looked at her incredulously before letting out a bark of laughter. And they said she was the mad one. As quickly as it started, it stopped. "You can yell at a dog till you're blue in the face but it won't understand a word you say," he sneered. His face adopting its wretched scowl.

"And you can tell the worm the world's truths but it will never be more than a spineless creature," she replied caustically.

"And what do you have to prove this so-called innocence? What evidence could you possibly have to overturn all the clear, real statements against you?" She hesitated. "Exactly," the worm finished with grim satisfaction, before packing his things.

"I would never, ever…I would not do it. I would not!" she muttered, her voice rising as he tried to walk away, "I'm innocent and I did not…did not do it," she finished quietly, the words beginning to overwhelm her. She didn't do it. She was going to kill Kirkland for saying otherwise. Alfred was not…he was not like the others. He could not die like that. Never. She was going to take that stupid briefcase and smash Kirkland's head through it. She wasn't lying. She wasn't lying. She was innocent. She was not crazy. She didn't do it. Alfred is alive. This farce has gone on for long enough. "I cannot confess to what I didn't do. Nor can I pretend to bear witness to what I cannot remember. If you would have me spew lives and beg for my life like a fool then I won't give you or anyone else the pleasure," she hissed.

He closed up his things, looking back at her with mock pity. "Don't you look at me…Don't you dare pity me. I am not crazy!" she repeated, and despite the conviction in her voice, she wasn't so sure herself anymore.

"Sure you aren't, Arlovskaya. If you're going to persist in this foolish illusion, then I suppose I'll see you at your execution. It's about time you face facts. …Alfred is dead and you are going to jail for a very, very long time. Feel free to call should you listen to reason and take some responsibility for your actions. Good day," he said sharply, there was a hint of vindictiveness in his tone.

She screamed in frustration. "Take that back you bastard!"

He didn't hear her, he only kept on walking. The door slammed shut. This couldn't be...this couldn't be real. It all had to be some horrible, horrible dream. Right…?

…

"That was dirty," officer Bonnefoy said aloud, "That was dirty and you knew it. Whatever happened to that professionalism, you were always talking about?"

The man continued walking forward, "This was different."

"And how is it? You're a lawyer and – no offense – a good old, bloodsucking mosquito of a lawyer. You never let your feelings get in the way, never need conscience." She scowled at him, "Those were your words to me if I recall."

"I'm surprised you remember, your knack for forgetting the big things is something you have a talent for," he mocked.

She stopped, grabbing his shoulder, "That doesn't answer for anything I've brought up you know. Don't dodge the topic."

His stony expression turned upon her, "Oh? Do I hear sympathy for this…this…" he turned away, "this murderer? She killed your co-worker. She killed my…" He cleared his throat. "She killed an associate of mine. It's unforgivable." But even to the rookie officer, she could tell what the oddest warble in his voice meant.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, "Do you really…really think that putting her in the slammer is going to make things better?" She let out a deep shuddering breath, "I-I didn't know much 'bout Al but…but I think I know he wouldn't have let you do this. I know that she's-"

"What do you know about him…her? About anything?!" he snapped defensively. He instantly deflated at the odd looks he received from the outburst. He dusted off his clean suit and continued his stiff descent to the parking lots below. "There is nothing left for me to say. If she wishes to damn herself than let her be damned." Michelle tried to speak up, but silenced with the look on his face. He was a stubborn one, her cousin had warned.

But she supposed she knew a thing or two about grief. Which was why she kept her mouth shut and turned away respectfully when he began to cry.

…

It's two o'clock. You must move on. It will be alright.

No it will not. It will never, ever be alright ever again.

The cracks in the walls are growing but Natalya endeavors to not be afraid. She has no fear. "I am not innocent."

It's four o'clock. The devil has come. The sun is setting and the sky is red. Although the window is small the blood leaks into the room, painting the once pure white walls with a crimson shade.

She must endure. She must endure until it is five o'clock. She's innocent. Kirkland is a liar. They're all liars.

He is standing in the corner. He cannot see, he cannot speak, he cannot hear. But he can feel. So he searches blindly, looking about the room. Arms spread wide, as if preparing to fly, he treads across the floor with light feet. She stays silent. She cannot let him find her. If she wishes to make it to five o'clock she must be still, but she cannot sleep, she cannot take her eyes away for a second. She must stay calm. She understands…she knows things are not as they should be. But it will be alright…it will be alright. Alfred will come for her.

A-tisket, a-tasket

A green and yellow basket

He turns to her direction. His hands stretch out again. The song continues to play, as if through an old tape recorder, filled with static and crackles. He dances with a partner that does not exist. It will be alright. She is innocent.

I wrote a letter to my love

And on the way I dropped it,

She had loved that song once. Dancing and dancing and dancing all night long. Till four o'clock was no more and the anxiety melted away. He was so close, so close to her now. He hovered at the edge of her bed. The music was off-key. The voice was too low…then too high…then too – too utterly, horribly wrong.

I dropped it. I dropped it.

And on the way I dropped it.

He leaned down. The blood from the cut dribbled black down her dress. She would not scream. She would not be afraid.

She has no fear.

And on the way I dropped it,

A little girl she picked it up and put it in her pocket.

"I don't know…I don't know. I don't know where it is!" He stood stock still. It tried to reach her, to touch her, but it couldn't. It couldn't do anything. "Stop it! Stop, Alfred!"

He didn't respond, simply choosing to continue towering over her. For how could he? A man without a head is one that is as good as dead.

A/N: DUM DUM DUM. That was one rude awakening eh? EH? ...Okay then. If you have the time, please drop a review on your way out. Thanks for giving this story the time of day.

To be continued?