(no subject)
She barely even thought about it anymore. Most days, it never even occurred to her that she was the same girl who died in that store-room in the Burnt Toast diner in Midland. Two and a half years had past since then. Three snows. Hiro had come and gone twice. She'd lost friends and made them and she had more family than she knew what to do with. The puppies had been born. She'd been married for a little over two months.
She didn't get scared every time she had a headache anymore.
Sometimes, though, she still thought about her brain, the flaw that might still be buried deep inside it. The doctor had given her six months but he hadn't banked on that asshole who'd been waiting for her in that stock-room and he hadn't banked on her waking up here. She hadn't thought about all this in a long time, but talking to Guy had reminded her. Sometimes, she wondered if that flaw was still deep in the middle of her brain. Sometimes, she wondered how long she had left.
She sat on the steps of the house in the Hamlet, paint drying on a canvas on the porch behind her and her name-tag in her hands. She hadn't even thought about it since the day she'd put it in a chest in the house but, that morning, she'd dug it out and now she sat there, rubbing her thumb over the letters.
WELCOME TO THE
BURNT TOAST DINER!
C H A R L I E.
It was another life. It was another world.
Which didn't mean that she didn't think about it, sometimes: what she'd had, what she'd lost, everything that she'd been given in return.
ooc: not particularly sad, mostly contemplative. Excellent time to meet her.
She didn't get scared every time she had a headache anymore.
Sometimes, though, she still thought about her brain, the flaw that might still be buried deep inside it. The doctor had given her six months but he hadn't banked on that asshole who'd been waiting for her in that stock-room and he hadn't banked on her waking up here. She hadn't thought about all this in a long time, but talking to Guy had reminded her. Sometimes, she wondered if that flaw was still deep in the middle of her brain. Sometimes, she wondered how long she had left.
She sat on the steps of the house in the Hamlet, paint drying on a canvas on the porch behind her and her name-tag in her hands. She hadn't even thought about it since the day she'd put it in a chest in the house but, that morning, she'd dug it out and now she sat there, rubbing her thumb over the letters.
WELCOME TO THE
BURNT TOAST DINER!
C H A R L I E.
It was another life. It was another world.
Which didn't mean that she didn't think about it, sometimes: what she'd had, what she'd lost, everything that she'd been given in return.
ooc: not particularly sad, mostly contemplative. Excellent time to meet her.