Broken
Carla lay on the hard floor, paralysed with fear. She scrunched her fragile frame into a tight ball like an artist folding origami paper. Her knees were huddled into her chest, she wrapped her arms around them. Her entire body was riddled with an uncontrollable trembling. She shook as if she had been walking in the snow for hours; her arms were scattered with the same goose-pimples. She was frozen, chilled to the bone, but it was her heart and soul, not her skin, that was painfully cold.
Carla's eyes were wide, resembling a petrified rabbit in the headlights. Her ordinarily bright brown eyes had been replaced with dull, lifeless orbs. That familiar twinkle in her eye was lost. Carla felt a lone tear escape, slowly making its journey down her cheek. She cautiously moved a quivering hand to her tear-stained face. She was shocked at how cold and clammy her skin was to touch.
A terrifying thought struck Carla; 'What if he came back?' She chastised herself for not thinking it sooner. She shuffled along the cold wood flooring to the door as her jelly-like legs were unable to support her quaking frame. She moved on to her knees so she was able to reach the chain on the door and she quickly fastened it. Her body slid down the wooden door until she fell to the ground, her tired muscles unable to take any more. She held her aching head in her trembling hands, angrily pulling at her hair. As hard as she tried to stifle her sobs, she couldn't, and she broke down.
Her mind cruelly replayed the horrific ordeal over and over, like the 'Start' menu on a DVD looping repeatedly. It hadn't entirely sunk in, what had happened to her. Oddly she felt as if she was watching somebody else go through it. She didn't recognise herself. She'd been removed from her tough-nut shell, stripped bare and made vulnerable, then exploited in the worst possible way. She felt dirty, disgustingly so, as if she hadn't washed for a week, and used. She'd been used by many men in the past but never quite so literally.
Each time her mind reached the exact moment, she felt a new twinge of pain like a punch in the stomach. It made her feel physically sick. Carla felt the familiar taste of bile, similar to the taste of bleach she imagined, rise in her mouth which made her throat burn. She gasped for breath in between stifled cries.
She ran a hand lazily through her messy hair finding a small bump at the back of her head. She touched it gingerly, wincing at the sharp pain it caused. She remembered how Frank had slammed her against the door, smacking her head on it in the process. She recalled the sickening feeling of Frank's body pressed against hers, the way his rough hands pawed at her skin, the discomfort of the hard wooden floor digging into her spine. She thought the physical pain was unbearable enough but it was absolutely nothing compared to the mental torture which she was enduring: a painful, emotional battle with herself. Another lonely tear fell.
How had it all come to this? Just a few hours before she was preparing for her upcoming wedding, supposedly the happiest day of a woman's life, to a man who had proven he would do anything for her. She shook her head at how much things could change so drastically in a matter of hours. Carla recalled a quote she'd heard at some point in her life, something about always being safe in your own home. She laughed an unconvincing laugh at just how ironic it was that her home was the exact place she'd never feel safe in again.
Looking around her modest apartment, her eyes flicked to the half-empty wine glass that was sat on the kitchen counter. She bowed her head as a pang of shame washed over her. How had she allowed herself to become so dependent on alcohol? It was the root cause of all of her problems, she discovered. Perhaps if she hadn't have started relying so heavily on alcohol then she wouldn't have allowed her business to deteriorate so much that Frank had to step in. She wouldn't have crashed the car, giving him the opportunity to have a hold over her when he took the rap. She wouldn't have become so close to Peter if it wasn't for the drink, developing feelings for him that she'd be forced to confess to Frank, then maybe he wouldn't have reacted in the way that he did. This was her fault, he'd said so himself and he was right. She only had herself to blame for this mess. This was her punishment for putting alcohol first, she decided. Carla felt a new found anger, not for her former fiancé but for herself. She cursed under her breath, annoyed at just how stupid she had been.
The sound of the door of one of the neighbouring apartments banging shut snapped Carla out of her disturbing thoughts. She jumped so violently and for a second was convinced that Frank was back for round two. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest and rested her forehead on them. Her breathing was so rapid it made her head pound and the room spin. Her heart was beating so hard that she could hear it thumping loudly in her ears. She raised her head as her breathing settled. She took another look around the living room noting how large it was compared to her small frame as she sat in the corner. For a woman who was normally so feisty and strong, Carla resembled a frightened child.
Her eyes continued to look round the room. That unconvincing laugh returned as she thought that for a living room, she certainly didn't feel like living in it. Everything around her reminded her of that evil man and what he had done to her. On the front of the bedroom door was the dark blue dress that she was meant to be wearing to the wedding. On the other side of the room his suit was hanging up, neatly pressed and ready to be worn. Even the impression marks left on the chair he'd been sat in made her shudder.
Her gaze met the kitchen worktop again; the wine glass glaring at her. She carefully manoeuvred across the floor, still unable to walk as she was shaking so much, to the worktop. It took all of her strength to move so she was on her knees and able to reach her handbag which was sat next to her glass of wine, where she always put it when she got home. With a trembling hand she took her mobile phone out of the bag and slid down the back of the kitchen counter to the floor, resuming her protective knees-to-the-chest position. She gripped the phone tightly, the tips of her fingers turning white. Carla attempted to steady her breathing as she shakily scrolled through the phone's contact list. Her thumb hovered over the 'Call' key for a second as she tried to compose herself enough to speak. She closed her eyes, pursed her lips and drew a deep breath as she called the only person she knew would understand.
"Maria?"