She sits on a swing, bright red sneakers and pink T-shirt, with shorts that have flowers all over the pockets, singing to herself. She's the only one on the playground, except for me, but I'm not really there, am I?

I can barely hear the song she's singing, but it blares in my brain like she's belting it out... “Bluebirds, flowers, sunshine, and showers. Sunsets and rainbows, on skies of red and blue...” I already know the rest of the words. I always have.

She's swinging so high, it makes me scared she will fall, even though I know she won't. That's not how it ends.

She stops the swing momentarily, grinding her feet against the ground until she pauses, then loosens the laces of her sneakers so that they are untied, and starts kicking again, pushing towards the sky, laughing delightfully. As soon as she reaches maximum altitude, she kicks her right foot, hard, and the shoe goes flying off and hits the jungle gym nearby. She's near hysterical with laughter as the other shoe goes flying as well.

No one is around to hear her laugh, because there's no one there for her, ever. She's as alone as is possible right now.

She lets the swing slow to a stop, her blonde curls windswept and messy from flying. She doesn't bother to fix her hair as she runs and gets her left shoe, then hops over to the other sneaker on one foot, giggling.

It was child's play, nothing crazy, but she's happier, now. The sadness has been banished from her eyes, if only momentarily. I run a hand through my own blonde curls, but they aren't there anymore. None of me is.

She skips back towards a bike waiting for her at the edge of the playground. It isn't the usual bike you would see a six year old riding; it is old and rusty and dirty and ugly. It has no bells or baskets or ribbons, just tires and handlebars, so that it can barely function as a bike. She hops on, no helmet or knee or elbow pads or anything, and pedals down the path, the sun setting behind her.

She has no place to go, truly. Her parents, gone. Her adopted family, cruel. Her world, shattered. No where to run but everywhere.

She pedals faster as the sun sinks below the horizon. It isn't good to be out at night. When there isn't a sun, and light, and hope, nothing ever goes right. The wind is picking up, and even though it's a summer's night, and the air was hot and sticky earlier, it's quickly cooling down.

The girl pulls a thin jacket around her as she pedals faster and faster, towards the road nearby. Too fast. Much too fast to notice that a car is coming, a sports car driven by a couple of drunk teenagers.

I move to her, run after her, reach out to tell her that she has to stop to save herself. To save me. But I merely pass through her, my cries go unheard, my warnings unheeded. The pat never changes, no matter how many times I try.

Of course, she can't know the things I know. She doesn't know that the guys have just come from a party, and are totally wasted, and can't react fast enough to stop when she flies out onto the road and they round the corner.

It looks painful, to anyone standing by. In reality, it was only momentary. I don't want to look, but I have to. Experiencing it is bad enough, but seeing it—that's something far worse.

She barely has time to scream before the car hits, tossing her into the air. I want to turn away, but I can't. Her body hits the pavement, limp and pale, and the car stops a couple hundred feet after it passes.

The two guys jump out, stumbling, dark figures against the headlights. I walk closer, right up to their faces, to see them, because I have to know.

They look at each other in fear, then jump up and run back to the car. They take off and don't look back. But now, I know. I never did before. I was always too scared to look back at it.

I know the faces of my killers.