Sure. [ He keeps his voice low, notes the way she carefully tears off small pieces of her muffin. She's about his apprentice's size, but where Diana is slim because of her ethnic background, Chrissy seems to take up as little space as possible. Something to note there, but he can set it aside for now.
He fidgets with the takeaway cup he was handed, feeling the heat of the coffee seep through the thick cardboard. At the back of his head, he can feel The Flower Girl watching, content to assess this new person in his presence. ]
I died, actually. [ It's normally where he starts. There's never any sense beating around the bush. He supplies details as needed, going into specifics when people prompt them from him.
For Chrissy though, he adds in scenery: ] Seven car pile-up on a highway out in rural California. Most people think I walked away without a scratch. Paramedics were very concerned because someone had checked on me before they could cut the door and they swore I wasn't breathing.
[ He remembers it all. It's not something you forget, even if the rest was just stories he'd heard from idle chatter of the survivorsβand the dead.
The truck in front of him had blown a tire. Everything had gone slow even as his foot slammed down on the brakes. The SUV behind him had done the same; a mom of two, surprised by the screech of his tires while she was telling her children to stop fighting over ice cream.
It had been a bit like dominoes, each driver just making the most of what they could in the few seconds it took them to react. The agony of waiting for help to arrive. The smoke, gas fumes. People from a nearby farm running over to help and put out fire before it spread onto the dry grass.
And on his end, a small hand lingering on his face; The Flower Girl's voice a mixture of desperation and surprise You see me even as he tasted blood in his mouth.
Yes, he'd replied. I do.
He's looking at Chrissy now, a sheepish smile on his face as if to apologize for the vaguely gruesome picture he'd painted for her to fill in the blanks. ]
with minor edits to his ghostly companion
He fidgets with the takeaway cup he was handed, feeling the heat of the coffee seep through the thick cardboard. At the back of his head, he can feel The Flower Girl watching, content to assess this new person in his presence. ]
I died, actually. [ It's normally where he starts. There's never any sense beating around the bush. He supplies details as needed, going into specifics when people prompt them from him.
For Chrissy though, he adds in scenery: ] Seven car pile-up on a highway out in rural California. Most people think I walked away without a scratch. Paramedics were very concerned because someone had checked on me before they could cut the door and they swore I wasn't breathing.
[ He remembers it all. It's not something you forget, even if the rest was just stories he'd heard from idle chatter of the survivorsβand the dead.
The truck in front of him had blown a tire. Everything had gone slow even as his foot slammed down on the brakes. The SUV behind him had done the same; a mom of two, surprised by the screech of his tires while she was telling her children to stop fighting over ice cream.
It had been a bit like dominoes, each driver just making the most of what they could in the few seconds it took them to react. The agony of waiting for help to arrive. The smoke, gas fumes. People from a nearby farm running over to help and put out fire before it spread onto the dry grass.
And on his end, a small hand lingering on his face; The Flower Girl's voice a mixture of desperation and surprise You see me even as he tasted blood in his mouth.
Yes, he'd replied. I do.
He's looking at Chrissy now, a sheepish smile on his face as if to apologize for the vaguely gruesome picture he'd painted for her to fill in the blanks. ]