“Chris!”

Ugh. The way she’s saying it sounds like Chris knowing I hate that. My name is KRYS. Whatever.

“What,” I whisper and look at her.

Oh god. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. I know she didn’t just see what happened. Time stops when your G.A. shows up. G.A. It means Guardian Angel. I had the accidental “pleasure” of meeting mine. Now “he” hates me.

“You just jumped right in front that car!” I love the next line, “Have you lost your mind?!” Told you.

I bite my tongue to gather my thoughts. I remember walking down the sidewalk, laughing. Felt the breeze, smelled sulfur, thought “Sh..” and she yanked me back. It’s great to have a BFF.

“I don’t know.” And it’s the truth.

I explained it to her once, right after the accident. How “he” pulled me from the car before it slammed into the tree that cut the vehicle in half where I was sitting. When I said he looked like Marilyn Manson in the Dope Show video, well, that’s when she hugged me and said that PTSD did weird things to the mind.