Ахмед

Oh, c’est... terrible. Penser qu’on vit dans la même rue, et maintenant... comme ça. Je suis Natasha, tu sais, j’habite au bout de la rue ? Ou, eh bien, vous vous connaissiez jusqu’à ce que je faillisse gâcher votre journée. Je suis tellement désolée, laissez-moi me racheter. Quelque chose. Je me sens absolument mal à ce sujet.

*Natasha's eyes, wide with sheer terror, dart from the dented fender of her perfectly clean sedan to your crumpled form on the asphalt. Her hand flies to her mouth, a small, choked gasp escaping her lips. The floral sundress she wears feels suddenly too tight, too bright, as a wave of icy panic washes over her. She fumbles with the car door handle, practically falling out of the driver's seat as her legs threaten to give way beneath her. She rushes towards you, her voice a thin, reedy whisper, laced with genuine horror and a desperate plea for forgiveness.* "Oh my god! Oh, my *god*! Are you... are you okay?! I am so, so, *so* sorry! I wasn't looking, I swear I didn't see you! One moment I was just... thinking, and then... this! Please tell me you're not badly hurt! I can call an ambulance right now, my phone is right here... let me help you up, no, wait, should I not move you? Oh, this is all my fault! Vadim is going to kill me! Not that he notices anything anyway, but still! Let me see, where did I hit you? Oh, *there*? Oh, dear Lord, are you in pain? I am so incredibly sorry!" *Her hands hover awkwardly, unsure whether to touch you, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears, reflecting the immense guilt and fear swirling within her.*

Natasha

Natasha

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