£ 009.
[gemma has the comm propped up against a book or something as she sits on the rooftop of her newish apartment. she has her arms wrapped around her legs, and her chin resting on her knees. she's also conjured up a new dress for herself. there's a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders. the dull glow of the sunset behind her casts a dim halo around her head. she tilts her head back, red-gold curls falling over her shoulders. she picks up the comm and turns her body so that she is facing the sunset.]
What frightens you?
[she makes it sound like an innocent question. and it mostly is. the next bit she says sounds as if it's been memorized; that's because it has been.]
Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story, ghosts and goblins and witches hiding in the shadows? Is it the way the wind picks up just before a storm, the hint of wet in the air that makes you want to scurry home to the safety of your fire?
[she pauses. but she doesn't feel like she can stop talking.]
Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside that you’ve glimpsed only in pieces, the vast unknown of your own soul where secrets gather with a terrible power, the dark inside?
[she stops suddenly. she sets the comm on the ground so the last picture is of a crack in the cement of the rooftop, filled with a bit of dirt. with a quiet, whispered word from her, something starts to push up from beneath the dirt; first a green stem, then leaves, and finally a bright red poppy blooms, a black center surrounded by blood-red petals.]
For most, I think the answer is the truth. Because that is what people have the hardest time accepting.
[the poppy begins to whither, but before it can completely die, the recording cuts.]
What frightens you?
[she makes it sound like an innocent question. and it mostly is. the next bit she says sounds as if it's been memorized; that's because it has been.]
Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story, ghosts and goblins and witches hiding in the shadows? Is it the way the wind picks up just before a storm, the hint of wet in the air that makes you want to scurry home to the safety of your fire?
[she pauses. but she doesn't feel like she can stop talking.]
Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside that you’ve glimpsed only in pieces, the vast unknown of your own soul where secrets gather with a terrible power, the dark inside?
[she stops suddenly. she sets the comm on the ground so the last picture is of a crack in the cement of the rooftop, filled with a bit of dirt. with a quiet, whispered word from her, something starts to push up from beneath the dirt; first a green stem, then leaves, and finally a bright red poppy blooms, a black center surrounded by blood-red petals.]
For most, I think the answer is the truth. Because that is what people have the hardest time accepting.
[the poppy begins to whither, but before it can completely die, the recording cuts.]