I didn't even have time to think of an excuse. When the secretary's computer exploded, a familiar feeling of sinking overwhelmed me. I gripped the edge of the table tightly.
"Allie," I said, calling her name loudly, my voice choked.
Mr. Reynolds froze in the action. Ellie talked to him, but the voice was too soft for me to hear.
Reynolds hesitated. When I start to react, customers often freeze. No one wants to die. For the customer, at this moment before it happens, it seems that any movement can be wrong. He stared at me through the glass floor.
Feeling death is like a panic attack. I try to breathe with the pressure of my chest. I don't really have any problems, it's just that part of me knows what will happen next, and that part of me panicked. My body is full of adrenaline, ready for anything. In this bright office, it seems unlikely that I would be hit by a bus, stabbed, crushed, or shè killed, right
mistaken.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm this sick feeling. Before I opened them again, a heavy object rushed out of the table and pushed me back from the chair. The back of my head hit the window and there was a bang, and my ears rang from the impact. The shards of glass on the secretary's desk sprayed onto my face like water. I tried to protect myself with my open hand, and then cursed like crazy.
"Who designed this?" I took out a large piece of glass from my left forearm. It passed directly through my arm. Blood spurted from the wound and broke my jeans. here we go again.
Allie walked down the stairs, step by step, holding on to the railing carefully. Good girl. Death replacement is a one-to-one exchange. I cannot die for two people at the same time.
"Mr. Reynolds?" It was his body lying on top of me, lying on the secretary's tattered desk. I kicked a large table away, pulled myself out of him, and dragged my burning arm with the broken glass.
"Mr. Reynolds, can you hear me?" I checked his pulse, which was very weak and very slow.
I opened his suit jacket and pressed my hand to his chest, and Allie's voice returned in the room. She told emergency rescuers the address and situation on the phone. The small glass shards on my arms and legs burned deep in my skin, burning like hell. Before she hung up the phone, I kept her out.
"What the hell did you say to him? We will not commit suicide." I said too quickly. Well, someone threw the body on me and caught me off guard. At least I will not be blamed for a broken computer now. "What the hell is going on with those fat guys hitting me? Two of them this week. I'm like 10 pounds, bastard"
This becomes a game to see who can speak the fastest with his eyes.
"I didn't let him jump, thank you. I told him that when your face is so pale, it means something is about to happen. So he didn't pay attention to his feet, but looked at you. He was caught by the laptop The wire tripped over and rolled onto the damn railing." She pointed, looking terrified too.
"You can't tell them they are dying," I said. I approached his ear and shouted, "You must have a wooden table."
As if in response to my own voice, my vision was completely abandoned, from the dazzling and weird to the colorful wave.
The room is a constantly changing aurora, made up of light and heat. When you look forward to it, even strange things can be comforting.
I wish Ally could see it.
"Fanfan, he doesn't look very good."
I focused on that man, and part of it was on my knees. Reynolds is no longer a warm red-orange color with yellow color like Ellie. He was green and walked all the way into the dormant blue and gray floor, desk and wall. My job is to prevent Lan Sè from surpassing him.
I can't explain what I am doing.
Death is a transformation of energy, I admit that I guessed it. When someone is about to die, a small black hole is created in their body. Like a black hole in space, it looks like an empty vortex. This whirlpool sucked away all the warm, living face of a person, and nothing left behind could not survive.
My job is to replace Mr. Reynolds and make them believe that Mr. Reynolds is ready to burn its little flame and turn into a dormant blue sè, it really doesn't want to enter the sewer of the whirlpool. For some reason, I did this voluntarily.
My Yan Sè has never been with Ellie, Brinkley, or anyone who accompanies me in the room to replace. I think, if I can see him clearly, the point is that I seem to be the welcome home of the blue flame, because I am always the blue flame. It's not the cold blue of furniture or architecture, it's more like gleaming blue.
Reynolds' flame was attracted to my body, and it gave his red warm fire room enough to burn. But I have been looking for a special spark, and I must find it in him and not let it be washed away.
The elevator door opened and the sound of Ellie yelling to the ambulance crew was like underwater sounds, because I was more focused on Reynolds.
"Hurry up, Fan Fan," she whispered.
As I pushed my flames towards Reynolds, a chill of cold solidified in the muscles of my back, coiling around my belly button like an invisible snake.
There, our flames dance with each other. Reynolds' chest suddenly rose, and he was panting and convulsing like burning gasoline.
But even if I dig Reynolds' precious sparks from dangerous ways, the vortex did not simply shut down. Someone has to go to the death drain. Unfortunately, that person must be me.
So I exhaled one last breath, immersing myself in the darkness of waiting.
The gorgeous tiles on Kirk's head came into focus. The soft, oily whirlpool and the smell of carnations welcome me to this place of life. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain passed through my shoulder and back.
"Don't move," Kirk ordered me to push me back. This is a Jǐng message from a grandpa to his unruly grandson.
Kirk, my funeral director, felt a pain in me. He is over 1.8 meters tall, bald, and his skin looks like cocoa beans. When I lay on his workbench, his square frame cast a long black shadow.
I hate everything here.
The face of the wall, those damn smelly flowers, Kirk's face. I am in pain and want to walk away instead of lying here and enjoying the pain.
Kirk has a focused expression on his face, and a thin brush reaches my eyes from one hand. He is a canvas artist.
"Smells good," I said, trying to say something nice. This is a tip from Ellie. If you find yourself annoying, just say some good things about this person.
"Organic rosemary," he said.
The real dead don't care about their cosmetics. However, as the relationship between content providers and funeral services continues to develop, customers like me have derived a series of organic cosmetics. No amount of Maybelline can make me look good after another person. My metabolism is very fast, and there are some regenerative healing skills, but I need help recombining parts of me. This is why I need Kirk.
The staff in the funeral home is used to working with corpses, so I can trust him to heal me at any stage of decay. The hospital is responsible for ensuring that all my ** and ** are explained, and Kirk makes sure that I will not scare the children on the way home.
"Have you noticed anything strange?" I asked.
He paused, the brush hovering on my lower lip. "It's strange that your heart beats in my hands."
"No, I mean anything unusual," I said. "Anything you don't usually see?"
He considered my question. He came back to paint my face. "No. Why?"
I thought of the strange electrical problem I encountered recently: the coffee machine, the light bulb and the secretary's computer all exploded on their own. This is abnormal to me, and it makes me a little scared-the way I lose my menstruation or lose my wallet makes me feel scared, not the accident itself, but more of the greater harm.
Kirk grinned and snapped his gloves off. "Everything is over."
He packed his black box, packed a box of gloves, all kinds of brushes and cosmetics. He tore off the other glove again and threw it into the trash can. In fact, I can turn my head and say that I am not a "zombie shuffle".
"When did I restart?" I asked.
He turned his wrist and looked at his watch. "Four hours ago."
This explains why the dead body is not so serious. My cells will have time to push out some calcium to reduce muscle contraction, but the only way to treat stiffness is to take a hot bath, massage, do a lot of gentle stretching exercises, and most importantly, extend the time.
"My. What is it?" I mean "rest time" or "death time". Necromancers die, no heartbeat, no breathing, real decay, etc., until our brains restart. Then we experience a coma. In this case, the four hours Kirk mentioned, and our body has recovered enough to support ourselves and regain consciousness. Scientists politely refer to this whole process as NRD, or Necroplastic Disorder. There is nothing to discuss here, guys.
Kirk looked at the ceiling as if calculating in his head. "About fifteen hours. We will be there at nine o'clock in the morning."
"Tuesday?"
"That's the one."
I like to sleep at night and wake up at normal times. This makes the death-life transition easier.
"Where is Ellie?" (to be continued) (end of this chapter)