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               Beverly dyed her hair brown as a teenager.

               She regretted it after about five minutes.

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               'Wait              what?'

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Send for my muse's reaction

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                                      You don't have to do this.

                               I do.

                                                 You shouldn't have to remember him this way.

                 It's better that I face the reality now.

                                          I'm sorry.

                                                                   I know.

               The suffocating corridors of Starfleet's too-expansive morgue are cold -- or perhaps it's just the run of her blood, the ice in her veins chilled by the image etched into her mind of the officers who had stood so sadly on her doorstep and delivered the news to her with their caps plucked from their bowed heads.

               'Dr. Crusher, I'm afraid there's been an accident.'

                                                her heart had stopped, and Beverly is half certain it hasn't resumed its steady beat since. When she prods her wrist, she feels a pulse ... she breathes, and stands, and walks as any human being, but she doesn't feel alive. She doesn't feel human when she stands before the mortuary table, and stares at the body-shaped lump masked only by a thin drape of cloth. 

                Again, her chest feels empty, and she presses two fingers to the curve of her neck, searches for that familiar thrum of life. When she, once again, locates it -- it makes little sense to the frozen woman. How can she have a pulse, when her blood has turned to ice and her heart itself lays dead before her?

                                           Pull back the sheet.

                                     Beverly, are you sure          ?

                                                               I said pull. back. the. sheet. 

               He looks so cold. Beverly feels sick -- feels herself shut down entirely as healing fingertips skim over the stitched up chest of the one man she'll never be able to save.

                                                                      For richer, 

                                                                        for poorer;

                                                           in sickness, and in health --

                                                'till death do us part.

                                  "                     I'm sorry, Jack."

               Sorry that his son will never truly know him.

                                                                   Sorry that she never got to say goodbye.

                                       Sorry for not being there to save him.

                                                                                        Sorry for not giving him one last miracle.

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               Beverly is an avid thespian.

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               'Coffee. 

                                      I need coffee.'

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               Beverly considers herself a very rational, level-headed person.

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                Beverly's husband proposed to her through the use of the gag gift of a book entitled, "How to Advance Your Career Through Marriage". 

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On a scale of 1-10 how scared for your life would you be if my character suddenly snapped?

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              Beverly's distant ancestors hail from Scotland, though her heritage is primarily North American.