Brandie was happy, once upon a time. It's pretty hard to think that far back though. Once upon a time, she had a family to call her own. Once upon a time, she had a loving husband. Once upon a time, she had a beautiful son. Few other images of life remain for Brandie, but these two faces, her darling husband and her wonderful son, have stayed in jarring focus.
She also remembers the sirens, first so far away, then closer. Then, there was a man shouting at her, trying to get her to respond. Something bad had happened. The man was freeing her from the smoking remains of a car, her car, and then she saw it. It was just a fleeting glimpse, and it took a while to register (everything was so muddled!), but she realized that it was her husband, so pale and so still, slumped over the steering wheel. Brandie remembers doctors, doctors approaching her bed with mouths pressed into thin lines, pausing before they began to speak. She remembers the interim, the loneliness, the wondering why. She remembers counting the sleeping pills, just enough to do the job without throwing them up again. She remembers fading away and not caring in the slightest, or maybe she did care a little. It hurts Brandie so much to think back.
If she tries really hard, she can even remember the moment of impact, the instinctive but useless effort to shield her son from the collision, the sudden pain. She doesn't try really hard any more. Most of the time, Brandie just drifts, floating here in the grayness, wherever "here" is. Sometimes, she can almost feel her husband next to her again, whispering her name. Sometimes, her son is leaping into her arms, though he never quite makes it. For the most part, Brandie is content to let images of her family occupy her mind. Occasionally, there are others, and she tells them Brandie's story. After all, it's an important story to tell. It's strange, but the questions "Where am I?" and "Who are these other people?" never cross her mind.
At the beginning of the game, you'll be waiting outside of the passenger area, away from the main group of players. While the other characters are busy chatting with their neighbors, taking naps, or reading magazines, you'll be lost in your own little world, reliving those awful memories of your family's death. When one of the judges announces the explosion, chaos will break loose. Searing light will burn its way through your muddled memories, and you'll feel a horrible wrenching sensation, almost as if you were going through the car accident all over again. Feel free to wail or cry out, but don't go overboard, as pretty much everyone will be dead silent within a few moments. Wait until a judge signals you to place your body among the other corpses. When you're placed, just lie still on the ground with your eyes closed until a judge announces the continuation of the game.
When the action starts up again, you'll be somewhat shaken out of your tragic dreaming. There are all these others around you now. Surely, they need to hear about your beautiful son, your loving husband, and the tragedy that took them away from you. When you tell your story, you can embellish the details of the car crash. In fact, your story may change from one telling to the next. You should act a little lost and confused. You may mistake other people for your husband, your son, or maybe the sister who tried to console you after their deaths. Every once in a while, you'll be reduced to tears, and you'll relive the tragic events. Cry out in denial when the doctors tell you that your son is dead. Cradle his lifeless body in your arms, and rock him in your arms. Lay yourself out to die. Repeat some variant of these events until someone talks to you or shakes you out of the memory.
Tell people about your story, though you can make up details and change them around from time to time. It's so hard to remember it through the fog anyway. Use your abilities to make people relive the events with you, so they can really understand.
Use your despair to quell actions if people are being too disruptive of your efforts to relive the past.