[The kitchen is in semi-darkness, lit only by the natural light from the small window. Allison enters.]
When I get the call, I think some part of me was waiting for it. Not in the sense where you're excited, craving something ardently or desperately. It's not...no, you don't think of it, but it's inherent in you. It's a survival function, to expect anything.
It's the knowledge that there's a shark in dark water, even if you don't see him.
Maybe it's just, I don't know, scepticism. Probably. I'm not sure... [Draws a chair and seats herself before the camera, avoiding the lens.]
He's not textbook desirable, but I really, really like him. I've never liked the ones who were conventional, the ones that other girls like, because the thought of me chasing after somebody...somebody who knows they're wanted. It makes me almost fearful. I don't want to be one of many. I never have been. [Meets the camera momentarily, with a hard stare.]
[Smiles reflectively and stands, beginning to pace before the window.]
He sort of flits around, moving with this kind of hurricane-like buzz of some kind of static electricity, and he makes me feel so unproductive by comparison. I commend him on that because, artistically, I hardly ever stop. [Offers a half-smile and wraps a hand around her upper arm, nursing the skin.]
It's not by choice - it's by function. I sometimes think that if I didn't draw, I'd blow up from the outpouring of emotion that rents me, and everybody, sometimes. But...
But I can remember always being trapped in his eyes, they were so, so dark. At first, this is the most attractive part of him; the destructive darkness, because I know, because I thought... [Breaks off, voice hitching.]
But, you see; I think I was wrong about that. I'm wrong about a lot of things. [Turns to stare out of the window.]
He was so gentle with me at first, you wouldn't even believe it. To those who knew him, it must have come as a massive shock.
We were on the outskirts of Ireland, the most green, rural part. It's like a painting, but there's something jarring in its beauty. It's too perfect. You begin to think something will slip out of the black rivers and lakes, and if it were a portrait, I'm sure its eyes would follow me. [Glances over her shoulder momentarily, almost fearfully.]
When we sit, we don't feel the obligation to talk. We were so compatible because there were no promises that needed to be kept, and I fell so, so hard. It was embarrassingly easy, but he laughed as if he could break my fall every single time, and he was so; I don't know, so easy to be consumed by.
She says to me "He really means well for him; he really loves him. It doesn't matter what he does, or how much he hurts him, he loves him far more than you do." I still think she was a poor excuse for a mother, but I know she liked me. She never got too cross when I complained about how explosive his father was.
He laughed the gravity off of everything, as if he thought it could save him.
He puts his arms around me and nuzzles into my shoulder, and I can still remember his smell. I loved the smell of men's deodorant, but nowadays it just makes me feel kind of sick. [Wraps her own arms around her torso and swallows, shifting from foot to foot.]
[She looks up, once.]
When I get the call, it's his mother's voice, and it's quavering as if the ground she's stood on has started to split. It's like an earthquake has ruptured some little, tiny part of her, and I can feel it when my organs drop. They feel like they've hit the floor I'm stood on in my bare feet and my towel, and my dripping wet hair.
The car, when I see it, doesn't even really look like a car. [Shakes her head dismissively and seats herself heavily, biting her lip.] It's a contorted mass of charred metal, like some abstract art piece. He's only seventeen; I'm younger. [Shrugs.]
Everybody thinks I need therapy, but this...this isn't it. [Looks the camera up and down, retracting and shifting away slightly.]
And I've no idea if he's even in it; a tiny part of me in the back of my head is screaming, literally bawling, that the whole thing is a sick joke. And I wish, I wish, I wish it was... [Bows head and knots her fingers into her hair, teeth set.]
Because I've always had such pathetic faith in good things to good people, and it's like seeing somebody smash a picture frame. The whole vain illusion of any kind of happiness just crumbles in your fingers, and you laugh at yourself and curl up in shame that you ever, ever trusted it in the first place. [Glances up.]
In a world so full of fire and money, how can something so delicate actually, palpably exist? The thing is, it doesn't.
And it's ok.
Because you'll get the call. There's always a call.