David weighs one hundred and forty two pounds, and is exactly six feet tall. He is brown-haired, hazel-eyed, and clean-shaven. He is twenty years old. He will not grow any older.
He rarely speaks these days. There is a very sharp sense of separateness about him, such that you would never sense him entering or leaving an empty room, even if you were paying close attention. Places and people grow dim and transparent when faced with his presence. His gait has developed a strange sort of edge that suggests it is taking him conscious effort to make contact with the ground. His hands are usually in his pockets. His eyes are very clear.
The worlds do not move for him except in flashes. He is looking at the prairie, and the house he shared with his brother is just a black speck on a bluish horizon — he blinks — now he sees the empty corridor of his high school — he blinks — an overturned bicycle on the highway — he blinks — he moves — he wanders, from scene to scene. To him, the universe is a set of discrete points. Countably infinite.
Shane Lysander is terrified of him and, if asked, can articulate some very good justifications for said terror. Chief among them the belief that David is no longer anything even close to human.
Death was never a blessing for David, and it didn’t turn him into a better person, and it didn’t change his perspective or grant him any sort of omniscient wisdom. If anything, he narrowed his views significantly, and systematically, and quietly completed the process of folding every aspect of himself, into himself.
