Gerard "Gerry" Keay (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skeletonkeay) wrote2023-11-19 01:51 pm
skeletonkeay) wrote2023-11-19 01:51 pm
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Point of contact for Pumpkin Hollow. Gerry can be reached by phone, mail, or a visit to his shop during business hours. Pinhole Printing and Binding is open from 11am to 6pm every day except Tuesday, because fuck Tuesday, or unless Gerry deigns otherwise.
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He hesitates a moment, rolling the idea around in his head until the words look right.
"This place has been good for me. In spite of everything, it's a hell of a lot better than where I came from. I spent my original life being passed from one set of chains to another. For the first time ever, I've got none. So I taught myself to allow myself to start fresh. Things got better." Finally, he shrugs.
What do they look like? God, what a question.
"Scars," he admits. "Sort of. They're like... spider-web. Shimmers of something you can only see half the shape of, when the light hits right or when a person turns just so. The shape of it depends on the fear. Fear of agony and loss looks like burn scars. Fear of being controlled looks like spiderweb. Fear of madness is spirals. Fear of scrutiny and judgement looks like... well." He holds up a tattooed hand, waggling his fingers.
no subject
Things got better.
He would give a good seminar.
And Carolina is glad for him; she is. That being said, the idea of staying in this place for any longer than what's required makes her stomach summersault. Triggers some animal instinct to flee, knowing it cannot within the confines of the cage it finds itself, driven closer and closer to madness.
This is temporary, she tells herself. That's fine. She'll figure it out. Make the most of wasted time. It doesn't have to be wasted so long as she does something productive. Something useful. Work, train, run, climb, stretch, train, run, work, work work work.
And she'll be out of here in no time. No time at all.
"Finally got the chance to figure out what it is you want. Were newspapers always part of the plan?"
Carolina leans forward to inspect his hand, her own eyes partially narrowed as if she were unconvinced by the entire thing.
"What happens if someone has an obscure fear? Like... the fear of odd numbers. Or eating out for dinner. Do they get a special scar? Maybe the irrational ones don't count."
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Pent up like a caged tiger, this one. And with that red hair and those toned muscles, she kind of looks like a tiger, too. Some wild Bengal in a circus trailer.
"That fear, however, irrational, is probably rooted in one of those deep, primal fears that's built into us to keep us alive," Gerry muses, entertained by philosophical questions like these despite the occasional bratty answer. "So it's like--- why is that person afraid of odd numbers? Is it because broken patterns or imbalance makes them nervous? That's probably tied to the Spiral. And that person afraid to go out to dinner probably is just a very specific flavor of agoraphobic. That's the Lonely."
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"I haven't held a book in—" A strangled laugh. "Forever. We used data pads back home, mostly. Books were one of those things they left behind. No one wanted to spend the money to have them published, not when they could be funding more... lucrative commercial ventures."
Like the military; unbelievable amassments of wealth funneled into weapons and technology, into soldiers and human experiments, the products of which could decimate the enemy like never before. Like her. Who has time for books when war wages right outside your window?
Her lips part into a noiseless 'ahh'. It makes sense, after all. Intrinsic fears; the parents we're born with who steer us away from harm long before words enter the equation. It begs the question;
"Can't people overcome them? We all start off afraid of loud noises, and that's an instinct too, isn't it? How many of us actually maintain that fear later in life? Everyone learns how to get over things." Get over; were it only that easy.
Carolina pauses, curiosity pushing at the edges of her conscious mind begging to be acknowledged. She indulges it after a minute of deliberation. Leans forward a little.
"You ever meet someone with no fear?"
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She leans forward, conspiratorial, and asks the question that Gerry loves and hates answering. A ghost of a smile curls his lips. The answer is plain and simple.
"No."
What else is there to say?
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Time and effort better allotted elsewhere. What use is training a muscle she can't see? Half the pleasure of a hard day's work in the field comes after, in micro-torn muscles and skin tacky with sweat. In the ache down her legs and feet, and in the bruises she's sustained from her efforts. In black eyes and busted lips. In knuckles turned purple. The body pushed to its limit. A win.
If she could drive her fist into the ugly mirages that surround her, maybe she'd be more willing.
Maybe.
For now, Carolina pitches her back against the seat, crossed arms, disappointed but not surprised by the answer he gives her. The single word is proceeded by a long, chary silence.
She stands.
"I'll make sure to come find you when I'm ready for my nature retreat. We can therapize each other."
Aaaand that's a wrap!
With a shrug, he hops off the counter, keen to get back to work with the departure of his guest.
"In any case, like it or not, you're part of the community now. So if you need intel, that's me. Let me know if you need anything."
And with that, he plonks down unceremoniously into his workshop chair and begins stitching the spine of an unfinished book, boots kicked up on his desk. There is a certain release of pressure that comes with his eyes leaving her.