Posted by Gemma on July 7, 2004, 10:02 pm

Gemma wraps her knee-length black leather jacket tighter around her slim body, just as she steps off the train which had brought her to Manchester, England. She massages a hand, slowly, across the back of her neck, and shuts her eyes, briefly. It is late; it is a cold night. And it looks like it is getting worse. She yawns, lazily. Did you find the answers you were looking for? She startles at the familiar voice. She twists her body around, swiftly, stumbling slightly, but he whips a strong, thick, tattooed arm out and grips onto her, catching her balance. She looks up from under her black mesh cap. Scruffy, her trusty friend from Nottingham, is standing there. Scruffy stubs out his cigarette and flicks it away, offhandedly. He looks flawless as usual in his dangerous low jeans, and tight blue t-shirt. His hair is slightly messed from the wind, but somehow still remains styled and straight, in a typical emo-boy way. Gemma: You got a licence to carry a loaded question? She smiles, and it reaches her glittering green eyes. Gemma: Hey... What are you doing here? Scruffy: I said I’d come, didn’t I? Gemma laughs nervously... She pauses, glancing away from his brooding eyes. Gemma: ...Yeah, but... Yeah, but I didn’t think you would. Scruffy: Typical you. A little trust – is that too much to ask? She looks defensive. Gemma: What’s that suppose to mean? Scruffy: You only hear what you want to. I said I’d show. I said I’d support. She shakes her head, lightly. She runs her tongue along her lower lip, biting slightly. Gemma whispers: Gemma: Don’t start, boy. ...Honestly, it’s wonderful, really. Scruffy grins, rebelliously. He slings his arm across her slender shoulders, protectively. Scruffy: Come on, honey, you look like you could use a stiff drink, or two. Gemma raises her eyebrow, suspiciously. Gemma: You’re not trying to get me drunk, right? Scruffy: Me? Never. A couple of hours later, they are seated in a small hotel room, equipped with a more than adequate mini bar. Scruffy takes a large mouthful of his Jack & Coke as Gemma polishes off her Vodka. Both are more than slightly intoxicated. Gemma sits on the carpeted floor and looks up at her inquisitive friend. She shakes her head; she can’t remember what he was just saying. Her vacant stare prompts him to repeat his question. Scruffy: So, Paris... You think you’re ready for this match? Was it painless? Pointless? Gemma: Neither. It was interesting, for sure. Gemma sighs. Gemma: But... All I know Scruffy: ...There is something wrong and you can't put your finger on it? Gemma nods her head in agreement. Scruffy reaches out, pulling her to her feet, and wrapping his arms, casually, around her lower waist. She staggers, laughing, falling forward. Her long dark hair falls, slighting shading her pale face. Gemma: Oh, yeah? So, what can I do? Scruffy pull her in closer, his hands run absent-mindedly up and down her arms as they just stand there for a few moments. Scruffy has missed his friend, but also wants to comfort her, as he’d never seen a soul in such despair. Nothing was going right for her: wrong guys, wrong situations, harmful state of mind. In a career like hers, she wouldn’t succeed if she couldn’t drag herself out of the black whole that was keeping her trapped. Scruffy reaches out with his free hand and tilts her face up to look at him. Scruffy: Maybe, just maybe, you make a dramatic change. Gemma furrows her brows. She freezes as he traces one fingertip along the side of her jaw and down her throat. He moves in, again, lightly brushing his lips across hers. Gemma pulls back, and steps away. Gemma: Dramatic changes? Yeah... Like what? I can’t change. #### what people say... I’m all I’ll ever be. I can’t hang around holding my last breath, waiting for someone to save me. Scruffy: You can make a change though. Gemma: How? Scruffy: You’re not too lost to be saved, Gemma. Don’t go back. Gemma scrunches up her face, confused. Gemma: I don’t understand. What are you trying to say? Scruffy: I’m saying stay in the UK. Don’t go back to California, don’t go back to America. Stay. Gemma steps back, further, suddenly looking shaken. Gemma: You can’t ask that Scruffy stands up. Scruffy: I can and I am. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or right.