"Claire," he started, then rubbed his forehead. "Look, um. You know anyone who's reluctant to talk about their past, besides me? Did you ever consider that it might have to do with something unpleasant?"
He held held out the hand not rubbing his forehead, trying to emphasize what he was saying. "Maybe, and this is just a suggestion, but maybe that person thinks it's not something you need or even want to know, you get what I'm saying? Maybe it's something painful or disturbing. There's no reason to get passive-aggressive, or feel bad about it. People try to protect each other from things like that, you know what I mean?"
"Rose," he replied, not looking at her. It took him a long time to figure out how to segue into the next thing she would want to know, but he finally turned to her and put one hand against the wall.
"Claire, I was with her when she passed on," he said. He hadn't told anyone about this, and finding the right words was difficult. He didn't want to frighten her. "She was eighty-five."
He didn't reply immediately. There were a lot of mixed emotions about his job.
"I liked being alive," he said finally. "There are a lot of things about life that I liked. That I still like. Did I like that I couldn't move on, though? That I might never get to know what's next, or see my family again?"
He paused. "No. I don't like that. Guess it was a paradox; those who didn't know if something came next got to find out first hand, and those of us who knew for sure would never know what it was. It's not right."
He put an arm around her shoulders in a fatherly sort of way and looked up at the lights. It was a while before he spoke, and instead of replying to her question, he simply said, "Looks real good, Peanut."
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He held held out the hand not rubbing his forehead, trying to emphasize what he was saying. "Maybe, and this is just a suggestion, but maybe that person thinks it's not something you need or even want to know, you get what I'm saying? Maybe it's something painful or disturbing. There's no reason to get passive-aggressive, or feel bad about it. People try to protect each other from things like that, you know what I mean?"
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He let a moment pass before sighing softly. He went back to helping with the decorations. "I had a daughter."
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"Claire, I was with her when she passed on," he said. He hadn't told anyone about this, and finding the right words was difficult. He didn't want to frighten her. "She was eighty-five."
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"No. No, I sure can't travel through time. That'd be a hell of a lot more preferable. No, I died in 192-," he said. "I'm what we call a grim reaper."
[OOC: I'm not sure of the exact date.]
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"No, I'm not immortal," he said, shaking his head. "Just got myself a bit of an extended lease on life, if you know what I mean."
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"I liked being alive," he said finally. "There are a lot of things about life that I liked. That I still like. Did I like that I couldn't move on, though? That I might never get to know what's next, or see my family again?"
He paused. "No. I don't like that. Guess it was a paradox; those who didn't know if something came next got to find out first hand, and those of us who knew for sure would never know what it was. It's not right."
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