Amberly's ashes had been prepared in prescriptive fashion — tucked inside a manila envelope with her name misspelled. Nash hadn't been able to abide that, especially not when Lee began to grouse about it; she rehomed them into a mason jar tied with cheap, dollar store ribbon. The sticker with the misspelled name has been replaced by a tidy sketch of her likeness, with Amberly Tabanelli in careful calligraphy at the bottom. It's taped on with cheap, transparent tape, but what can you do?
With the jar tucked carefully into her bag, Nash invites herself into the passenger seat of the minivan without hesitation. Her seat belt is barely clicked into place before she's opening her mouth. ]
Think your 'my other car is a broom' bumper sticker fell off.
[ Throwing shade on the minivan always makes her feel a bit better. ]
( Hey, you know what, if you ask him, her dollar store mason jar arrangement is more dignity than a lot of people get in death. He's seen bodies rolled into unmarked graves. He's seen them abandoned on the side of the road. The respect and care she's putting into this would make a lot of corpses jealous.
He waits for her to get in. Waits for her to buckle up. Taps his thumb on the steering wheel along with the radio, and when she makes her dumb comment, he shoots her a flat, unimpressed look. )
Replaced it with my cat's an honor student. You done? Where are we going?
( Before she even answers he's got the van in drive, steering them out of the parking lot. )
[ She gives him the general location, and then follows it up with, ]
Then we can stop at the mall and get you some Yankee candles and yoga pants.
[ Okay, now she's done.
She leans back in the seat; Nash is uncommonly at ease in the minivan, despite her teasing. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror, she closes her eyes. Her bag remains in her lap, hands carefully wrapped around it. ]
( That earns her only a snort for her effort — which is about the closest he tends to come to a laugh, so if she wants to count it as a victory, she's more than welcome to. For a minute, there's quiet, and the radio, and comfortable nothing — until he catches sight of her in his peripheral vision. Sees the way she glances, sees the way she closes her eyes.
Chews on his cheek for a moment, debating on whether or not he wants to ask. The bottom line is, the only reasons he'd hold back are all selfish. Self-protective. The less he knows about what she can do, the less he'll obsess over it, but-
Today's not about him. She's burying a friend.
Eventually, he ventures: )
That bad?
( She mentioned the ashes made it worse. Is she- what, seeing her in the rear view? Hearing her? )
[ She doesn't want to open her eyes, so she doesn't. The cool evening air is helping relieve some of the pressure in her forehead, but not by much. ]
I called in sick to work today.
[ It's something of an admission. A healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) fear of getting fired from either job generally keeps her from crying wolf but the last twenty-four hours has been, well, a lot. Every shadow, every reflection, had boasted Amberly's colours like an attack, like an aural gunshot. Look into a glass of water, see the blue of her eyes. Take a deep breath, smell her flavoured chapstick. ]
Drawing, painting— I learned all that from my grandpa. Art was big in our community. It usually helped, like, put them on the page so I don't see them everywhere I turn. [ An exhale. She still can't bring herself to open her eyes. The darkness is nice. Soothing. ] I guess having human remains is the exception to the rule.
( Something Murdock said about all this... it's been sitting with him ever since that conversation. He'd seemed so certain about his assessment, his conviction was real, but... the thing is, if this is some misplaced maladaptive version of her being psychic... whose mind is she reading to see Amberly right now? If that's the explanation, that she's picking things up from other people, who the hell is projecting Amberly?
The thought makes his jaw clench, makes him want to ask. To poke holes, to prod, to find some kind of gotcha that concretely determines one way or another whether she's seeing the real, true souls of people, or if she's just seeing shades of them, echoes of them, manifestations of trauma.
Human remains — can she pick up shit like that from someone even after they're gone? After they're cremated? Could she be picking up on her own traumas, manifesting them as ghosts? He doesn't doubt that she's seeing something, doesn't doubt that to some extent it's real, it's just... the definition of the things she sees are his last hope to rationalize his way out of the most horrifying shit he could possibly conceive of. )
Do you- ( He starts, stops. Glances up to the rear view as though he's gonna see a single damn thing in it and finds it predictably empty. ) Do you ever wonder... if what you're seeing isn't necessarily — a whole person? You ever find a way to prove if they're really- you know, all there? If I- I don't know, held my fingers up right now while your eyes are closed, could she tell you how many I was holdin' up?
( There's a soft scoff, a long beat spent deciding whether or not he really wants to know the answer to this, and then, ultimately, he decides to rip the bandage off. Not knowing the truth doesn't change the truth, it just makes you a pussy for copping out of learning it. So. Fine.
He holds up three fingers with his right hand, while his left stays on the wheel. )
[ For a few seconds, he'll hear half of a conversation. Her sentences are spaced out; the pauses between, the responses, marked by a slight twitch of a loose tendril of hair near her ear. ]
Whatever, it's fine. Go ahead.
[ Pause. ]
Maybe, like, a really hot trained monkey.
[ Pause. ]
Yeah.
[ Pause.
Her eyes fly open abruptly. Nashua sits forward, one hand holding the bag with the jar clutched against her stomach. The other hand digs into the edge of the seat. She strains against the seatbelt, all weary amusement fading. ]
Hey, don't—
[ It's too late.
Reaching through the seat — through Frank — Amberly uses all her focus to press down on the steering wheel, on the horn. Quick and angry blasts. Once. Twice. Three times. ]
( At first, Frank's only reaction to her conversation with herself is a few short, quick glances in between watching the road, a furrow in his brow, a frown on his lips. That frown only progressively deepens at hot trained monkey, and then his nerves start to flair up — a subtle tingling, the hairs at the back of his neck rising, that sensation of being watched. That inherent, baked-in danger sense that he's got telling him something's wrong.
He's hit with the horrible sensation of ice water down his back, frigid and unpleasant and tingling-
BEEP BEEP BEEP
He nearly swerves at the second one, just barely straightening the wheel before a proper sway can take hold. )
Christ!
( A stunned, unbelievable half-a-second, and then a sharp glance in the rear view, reprimanding the empty seat: )
Don't do that shit! Some of us are still tryin' to live!
[ At the tail end of Frank’s exclamation, Nashua’s voice cracks like a whip. She’s genuinely angry in a way that’s quite rare for her; her lips grow a touch pale as she presses them together in a hard line, an uncompromising severity to the already somewhat harsh planes of her face. ]
— get away from him.
[ She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. The ice in it is more than enough, a touch of gravel and a hint of reverb to twine the whole thing together. She hasn't realised her voice has taken on a bit of a rottweiler bite in the past week.
It has to be enough. The tension in the vehicle dissipates some, the cloying sense of paranoia loosening into the same mild tension that characterises Panorama.
With a swallow, Nash slums back into the passenger seat. She doesn’t close her eyes again. ]
You okay? I can take over driving if you want. I’m— [ An impatient flick of her fingers. ] Used to those sorts of stunts.
Edited (i hated the prose ) 2025-09-25 02:40 (UTC)
( Kneejerk reaction numero uno is a very firm: ) No. ( Then a slightly softer, but still quite certain: ) No.
( The last thing he wants after all that shit is for somebody else to be in control of the vehicle. He's more comfortable keeping his hands firmly on the wheel, thank you very much. He's handled shit far more distracting than honking horns and wiper blades. If he can manage to street race through a gun heist or a shootout, he can manage this.
Can't say he's thrilled about what it implies, though. It's too real, too sentient, too there. It defies Murdock's insistence that it can't really be them. Whether it's the full picture or just a shade, it's still too god damn much for Frank to be okay with it. )
Look, just- tell her I'm sorry for makin' her feel like a trained monkey. It wasn't like that. It's just about me needing to know how much of my kids are my kids.
( Said with a quick, serious look shot into the rear view mirror again. Unlikely that he's making eye contact with a dead girl, but it's the thought that counts. )
[ For a few long moments, only silence is his answer.
Well, not complete silence. The wheels continue to churn along the less-than-adequately paved road, the minivan hums with motion. Across the street, a handful of teenagers are set up in a gas station parking lot with a six-pack of beer; their shrieks of laughter cut across the din. And all of that filters below Amberly's displeased little scoff, her sullen whatever, fuckstick, and Lisa—
Lisa's wide-eyed, gentle awareness. Lisa hearing her father talk about her in the present tense again. A corner of Lisa's mouth curving without knowing which way it will go, torn between querulous indignation at the language and the thrill of wanting to try out those words herself.
Nash twists to rest her chin against the lower dip below the headrest, her eyes fixed to the back bench of seats.
Lisa is wearing a seatbelt. Not the van's seatbelt, obviously, but one that manifests above her shoulder and vanishes at corner of her opposite hip. Nash can't help but smile, listening to words only she can hear, and then— ]
Okay. [ Pause, ] — But not tonight. Cool?
[ Seated right way around again, Nash studies Frank's face. The lights from the dashboard glare up at him, further highlighting the similarity between his skin and a stretch of pavement.
When she finally says the next thing, something in her chest feels like a tin soda can being pulverised by a compactor. ]
( His hand flexes on the steering wheel — the unfurling and re-furling of his fingers shifting position on the grippy pleather. His throat works, swallowing down a sudden thickness it can't seem to manage in one bite.
The thing is-
The thing is. He'd say no. He would, he'd say no, because it's better if he doesn't, but if they're— Christ, Amberly'd been real enough to get pissed off and honk the fucking horn. If it's really them, if there's enough of them left to feel and understand, if they're listening, and watching, and hearing this... and they hear him say no, that he doesn't want to talk to them?
He can't do that. He can't. He can't give even the shade of his kids the impression that he's willing to abandon them just 'cause they're dead, 'cause they're-
[ She tips her head back into the headrest, closing her eyes again.
Maybe she'll admit it to him after the fact, how intimidating the prospect is— how frightened she is. Of bringing someone else into the circle of World's Worst Synaesthesia; of potentially demonstrating how uniquely her body reacts to the most potent of it. ]
I have a weekend off from work coming up. We'll do it then.
[ Her tone, tired and roughened and a little hoarse, doesn't give much room for argument. ]
( He can't bring himself to say anything. Can only really tighten his hand on the wheel and nod, before he lapses into silence.
The two grappling instincts within him don't make any headway ascertaining which one's more dominant by the time they get to her designated resting place. Frank cuts the engine, cuts the headlights. Steps out of the car, even, intent to stand side by side with her while she says — whatever parting words she plans to say, while she does whatever it is she plans to do.
He didn't know the girl, but shit, he met her once. Least he can do is pay his respects, too. )
[ She said she hadn't intended to eulogise, and she meant it. What is there even to say?
It was fun, you were really hot. Sorry you got shot in the face. Maybe don't try so hard to get people to do drugs with you.
Ultimately, Nash's feelings are a complicated knot of sadness, guilt, and the slightest flicker of relief — but no grief. There was never a day since the shoot-out in the street where she woke up and felt the need to cry over Amberly. Maybe she's just broken, as busted down as any abandoned car edging Panorama's desolate highways.
But they bury the jar underneath a the drooping branches of a willow tree that is surprisingly healthy, in one of the few parks that gets some measure of care. Nashua gets through half a verse of a death song before her voice cracks, and peters out, and—
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Sooner the better
Whenever you're free
Thanks
no subject
no subject
Amberly's ashes had been prepared in prescriptive fashion — tucked inside a manila envelope with her name misspelled. Nash hadn't been able to abide that, especially not when Lee began to grouse about it; she rehomed them into a mason jar tied with cheap, dollar store ribbon. The sticker with the misspelled name has been replaced by a tidy sketch of her likeness, with Amberly Tabanelli in careful calligraphy at the bottom. It's taped on with cheap, transparent tape, but what can you do?
With the jar tucked carefully into her bag, Nash invites herself into the passenger seat of the minivan without hesitation. Her seat belt is barely clicked into place before she's opening her mouth. ]
Think your 'my other car is a broom' bumper sticker fell off.
[ Throwing shade on the minivan always makes her feel a bit better. ]
no subject
He waits for her to get in. Waits for her to buckle up. Taps his thumb on the steering wheel along with the radio, and when she makes her dumb comment, he shoots her a flat, unimpressed look. )
Replaced it with my cat's an honor student. You done? Where are we going?
( Before she even answers he's got the van in drive, steering them out of the parking lot. )
no subject
Then we can stop at the mall and get you some Yankee candles and yoga pants.
[ Okay, now she's done.
She leans back in the seat; Nash is uncommonly at ease in the minivan, despite her teasing. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror, she closes her eyes. Her bag remains in her lap, hands carefully wrapped around it. ]
no subject
Chews on his cheek for a moment, debating on whether or not he wants to ask. The bottom line is, the only reasons he'd hold back are all selfish. Self-protective. The less he knows about what she can do, the less he'll obsess over it, but-
Today's not about him. She's burying a friend.
Eventually, he ventures: )
That bad?
( She mentioned the ashes made it worse. Is she- what, seeing her in the rear view? Hearing her? )
no subject
[ She doesn't want to open her eyes, so she doesn't. The cool evening air is helping relieve some of the pressure in her forehead, but not by much. ]
I called in sick to work today.
[ It's something of an admission. A healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) fear of getting fired from either job generally keeps her from crying wolf but the last twenty-four hours has been, well, a lot. Every shadow, every reflection, had boasted Amberly's colours like an attack, like an aural gunshot. Look into a glass of water, see the blue of her eyes. Take a deep breath, smell her flavoured chapstick. ]
Drawing, painting— I learned all that from my grandpa. Art was big in our community. It usually helped, like, put them on the page so I don't see them everywhere I turn. [ An exhale. She still can't bring herself to open her eyes. The darkness is nice. Soothing. ] I guess having human remains is the exception to the rule.
no subject
The thought makes his jaw clench, makes him want to ask. To poke holes, to prod, to find some kind of gotcha that concretely determines one way or another whether she's seeing the real, true souls of people, or if she's just seeing shades of them, echoes of them, manifestations of trauma.
Human remains — can she pick up shit like that from someone even after they're gone? After they're cremated? Could she be picking up on her own traumas, manifesting them as ghosts? He doesn't doubt that she's seeing something, doesn't doubt that to some extent it's real, it's just... the definition of the things she sees are his last hope to rationalize his way out of the most horrifying shit he could possibly conceive of. )
Do you- ( He starts, stops. Glances up to the rear view as though he's gonna see a single damn thing in it and finds it predictably empty. ) Do you ever wonder... if what you're seeing isn't necessarily — a whole person? You ever find a way to prove if they're really- you know, all there? If I- I don't know, held my fingers up right now while your eyes are closed, could she tell you how many I was holdin' up?
no subject
Her eyes remain closed. ]
Hey, give it a try.
no subject
He holds up three fingers with his right hand, while his left stays on the wheel. )
no subject
Whatever, it's fine. Go ahead.
[ Pause. ]
Maybe, like, a really hot trained monkey.
[ Pause. ]
Yeah.
[ Pause.
Her eyes fly open abruptly. Nashua sits forward, one hand holding the bag with the jar clutched against her stomach. The other hand digs into the edge of the seat. She strains against the seatbelt, all weary amusement fading. ]
Hey, don't—
[ It's too late.
Reaching through the seat — through Frank — Amberly uses all her focus to press down on the steering wheel, on the horn. Quick and angry blasts. Once. Twice. Three times. ]
no subject
He's hit with the horrible sensation of ice water down his back, frigid and unpleasant and tingling-
BEEP BEEP BEEP
He nearly swerves at the second one, just barely straightening the wheel before a proper sway can take hold. )
Christ!
( A stunned, unbelievable half-a-second, and then a sharp glance in the rear view, reprimanding the empty seat: )
Don't do that shit! Some of us are still tryin' to live!
no subject
— get away from him.
[ She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. The ice in it is more than enough, a touch of gravel and a hint of reverb to twine the whole thing together. She hasn't realised her voice has taken on a bit of a rottweiler bite in the past week.
It has to be enough. The tension in the vehicle dissipates some, the cloying sense of paranoia loosening into the same mild tension that characterises Panorama.
With a swallow, Nash slums back into the passenger seat. She doesn’t close her eyes again. ]
You okay? I can take over driving if you want. I’m— [ An impatient flick of her fingers. ] Used to those sorts of stunts.
no subject
( The last thing he wants after all that shit is for somebody else to be in control of the vehicle. He's more comfortable keeping his hands firmly on the wheel, thank you very much. He's handled shit far more distracting than honking horns and wiper blades. If he can manage to street race through a gun heist or a shootout, he can manage this.
Can't say he's thrilled about what it implies, though. It's too real, too sentient, too there. It defies Murdock's insistence that it can't really be them. Whether it's the full picture or just a shade, it's still too god damn much for Frank to be okay with it. )
Look, just- tell her I'm sorry for makin' her feel like a trained monkey. It wasn't like that. It's just about me needing to know how much of my kids are my kids.
( Said with a quick, serious look shot into the rear view mirror again. Unlikely that he's making eye contact with a dead girl, but it's the thought that counts. )
no subject
Well, not complete silence. The wheels continue to churn along the less-than-adequately paved road, the minivan hums with motion. Across the street, a handful of teenagers are set up in a gas station parking lot with a six-pack of beer; their shrieks of laughter cut across the din. And all of that filters below Amberly's displeased little scoff, her sullen whatever, fuckstick, and Lisa—
Lisa's wide-eyed, gentle awareness. Lisa hearing her father talk about her in the present tense again. A corner of Lisa's mouth curving without knowing which way it will go, torn between querulous indignation at the language and the thrill of wanting to try out those words herself.
Nash twists to rest her chin against the lower dip below the headrest, her eyes fixed to the back bench of seats.
Lisa is wearing a seatbelt. Not the van's seatbelt, obviously, but one that manifests above her shoulder and vanishes at corner of her opposite hip. Nash can't help but smile, listening to words only she can hear, and then— ]
Okay. [ Pause, ] — But not tonight. Cool?
[ Seated right way around again, Nash studies Frank's face. The lights from the dashboard glare up at him, further highlighting the similarity between his skin and a stretch of pavement.
When she finally says the next thing, something in her chest feels like a tin soda can being pulverised by a compactor. ]
I can give you ten minutes with them.
no subject
The thing is-
The thing is. He'd say no. He would, he'd say no, because it's better if he doesn't, but if they're— Christ, Amberly'd been real enough to get pissed off and honk the fucking horn. If it's really them, if there's enough of them left to feel and understand, if they're listening, and watching, and hearing this... and they hear him say no, that he doesn't want to talk to them?
He can't do that. He can't. He can't give even the shade of his kids the impression that he's willing to abandon them just 'cause they're dead, 'cause they're-
He licks his lips, and slowly nods. )
Okay. ( And then— ) When?
( Not now, god, not now while he's driving. )
no subject
[ She tips her head back into the headrest, closing her eyes again.
Maybe she'll admit it to him after the fact, how intimidating the prospect is— how frightened she is. Of bringing someone else into the circle of World's Worst Synaesthesia; of potentially demonstrating how uniquely her body reacts to the most potent of it. ]
I have a weekend off from work coming up. We'll do it then.
[ Her tone, tired and roughened and a little hoarse, doesn't give much room for argument. ]
no subject
The two grappling instincts within him don't make any headway ascertaining which one's more dominant by the time they get to her designated resting place. Frank cuts the engine, cuts the headlights. Steps out of the car, even, intent to stand side by side with her while she says — whatever parting words she plans to say, while she does whatever it is she plans to do.
He didn't know the girl, but shit, he met her once. Least he can do is pay his respects, too. )
🎀
It was fun, you were really hot.
Sorry you got shot in the face.
Maybe don't try so hard to get people to do drugs with you.
Ultimately, Nash's feelings are a complicated knot of sadness, guilt, and the slightest flicker of relief — but no grief. There was never a day since the shoot-out in the street where she woke up and felt the need to cry over Amberly. Maybe she's just broken, as busted down as any abandoned car edging Panorama's desolate highways.
But they bury the jar underneath a the drooping branches of a willow tree that is surprisingly healthy, in one of the few parks that gets some measure of care. Nashua gets through half a verse of a death song before her voice cracks, and peters out, and—
And... that can be it.
Leaving, as it turns out, is very easy. ]