She touches my already cold skin, shocking herself upon the lack of warmth. She checks a pulse or two, all nothing, and slaps me to try to wake me up. Obviously, no response. I’m unresponsive, cold, and have no pulse. How much more dead can you get? I never thought she would find me like this after all these years. She cries out to some deity in the unspoken wind and no one can hear her except me, under her. She scratches at my chest and my arms, begging and pleading to me, nonsensical pain. And she cries.
I never believed I’d do this either. It was a miracle that I passed over. To some people it was just a whisper, to mine it was a scream. They heard it too late. She desperately tries to revive me, slitting open her own skin for an offering of blood and praying to the mercy of god for forgiveness. Her tongue is quite melodic and beautiful, sounding like jagged rocks on a pier when she speaks it now over my blue body. I can tell she’s using all of It to help. It