This is the first thing I've written in well over a year and I'm doing so on a 6-hour coach journey, so don't judge me too harshly! This is just a ramble that doesn't particularly go anywhere but I needed to straighten some things out in my mind and it annoys me how little reaction we're seeing on screen, so this is my way of compensating.


It had been a long time since Carla had last thrown a pint over someone; years, decades even maybe. And she couldn't deny it had felt good.

Roy had been less impressed. The look on his face as she'd stormed through the cafe door, still enraged at the downright callous attitude of her ex husband's new girlfriend, had spoken 1000 words. Of course they'd both understood the concern behind his judgement, but thankfully her friend was succeeding in his mission to become a better liar and hadn't let anyone else see it. As far as they were concerned, he was merely surprised and disappointed that she'd engage in such childish antics, even if she'd not been the one to start it. He'd had the decency not to add "in your condition", but she knew it was there, bubbling in the air space between them. The world doesn't deserve Roy Cropper, she'd found herself thinking, not for the first time.

"Don't worry, it won't happen again" she'd assured him. If only he knew how literally she meant that. Had this been the last time she'd brawl in a packed pub? The sicker she got, the less energy she'd have to waste on beer throwing and, let's be real, the less people would be willing to fight her. Who could be cruel enough to pick fights with dying people? And you can't pick fights if you're dead.

Was that what she was now, a dying person? As she peeled off her beer-soaked top, and all that excitement begun to catch up with her, it seemed far more probable than she'd been fooling herself it was earlier in the day. The lightheadedness that this little catfight had distracted her from was beginning to hit her again, as was the nausea. It was moments like this when her situation really started to feel real. And it was terrifying.

She knew she was getting worse, that she was declining in more ways than one. She'd put off changing consultants since deciding to stick around, and she knew this was a mistake. But she also knew that when she finally did go back for a check up, the news wouldn't be good. The medication she'd driven 20 miles out of town to collect was having less and less effect. The process of driving 20 miles out of town just so no one she knew would see her, keeping up the pretence of health was exhausting her; Roy had been right about that. She couldn't keep this up for much longer and she knew it, but she knew just as well that right now the idea of having to tell everyone - to once again be the one who needs help, to be bailed out, was almost as terrifying as death itself. It had crossed her mind more than once that maybe dying quietly, back in Devon, and keeping this whole sorry mess a secret might not be so terrible after all. But that was insane - she couldn't let pride literally kill her, and anyway, they'd just find out from the coroners' report and still pity her, only this way they'd also have a shedload of guilt on top of their grief, and she knew first hand how awful a life of that was.

The irony wasn't lost on her, all those years she'd spent being so flippant about her life - and the times she'd actively wanted to end it, and now here she was, starring death in the face and suddenly she wanted to live more than anything. Suddenly the life she'd never valued was so precious that she hated herself for not appreciating it for all these years, There was a book she'd seen the film adaption of, about a woman who attempts suicide, only to wake up and discover that she's done irreparable damage to her body and that she's going to die. Only there, it was all a trick played on her by a doctor to make her appreciate life. There was no illness, and she's not dying, but believing she is makes her value her life. Or something like that, she'd only half watched it, but now she found herself wishing that she could be that woman - that this was some cruel trick to punish her for her self-destruction because, god, it had worked.

I've learned my lesson, she almost said out loud. You can stop joking around now. Come on, bring out the film crew, tell me it's all been a set up. I promise I'll learn from this experience and I won't sue.

It had all been so great, for a minute there. Having left this place with her head hung in shame, she'd forged a new life for herself; new job, new home, new friends. She'd co-run a pretty successful business and found herself content for the first time in a long time, maybe ever. For once in her life, she wasn't just scraping by, wasn't fighting endless demons. She could just be, and it felt wonderful. Then one day she'd passed out in a meeting, and all those little things she'd been ignoring begun to add up to bigger things, and the next thing she knew she was sitting in a doctor's office being handed leaflets on dialysis and donor options. She could have had this for years, they'd told her. Most people don't even have symptoms until it's too late, and let's face it, she'd never had much of an appetite to lose. Sleep problems, well yeah, who doesn't have those? It wasn't as if she hadn't abused her body with various forms of self-destruction enough over the years, if anything it was a miracle she'd lasted this long. Maybe she should've expected it.

She'd told no one back in Devon. She'd fobbed them off with some rubbish about low blood sugar to explain the fainting and they'd had no reason to doubt her. But as the fatigue started to become harder to hide, there were only so many client meetings she could feign, only so many times she could call in sick before someone suspected something. The truth was, wherever she'd remained she'd have been rumbled at some point, and she'd been as reluctant to taint her new, positive surroundings with this as much as she had with her family.

As Carla rummaged through the wardrobe in search of a replacement top, a strong wave of dizziness hit her like a bolt of lightening and she was forced to sit down on the bed, feeling herself grab the edge of the duvet to centre herself as the room spun. This wasn't good. She knew she'd likely crossed that thin line she'd been riding since November; the line between just about managing without dialysis and not. When being hooked up to a machine three times a week for hours became the only way she could survive. Even that was no cure, no long term fix. She'd done her research, and despite doctor's advice not to get bogged down on averages, she couldn't get that five year figure out of her head. Five to ten years, on average, to live on dialysis. It put a whole new meaning to the five year plan. Five years, minus the endless hours wasted hooked up to that machine, reading trash magazines or starring into space. Five years of clean living, of sobriety, of dizzy spells and early nights and being too knackered to walk from one end of the street to the other.

Maybe this was karma. She was sure Gail Platt would mutter that under her breath when she inevitably found out. And Tracy Barlow, Rob… Any and everyone else who's lives she'd ruined. All those corpses and broken hearts in her wake, so many times she'd cheated death when she hadn't deserved to. It was only a matter of time before it all came back on her and now it had. Just desserts. A quick bullet to the head would be far too easy, she guessed.

The shrill beep of her text alert brought her back to earth with a thud.

'Meet me in Roy's in an hour? Need to run some factory stuff by you x'

Aidan. No doubt he'd already started to wonder why she was sticking around, out of work yet keeping her distance from the factory too. Even the most extended Christmas break should be over by now. At least if she feigned interest in the business she used to devote her life to it might buy her some time.

'Sure, so long as you're buying!'

Pulling on whatever t-shirt she had to hand, Carla grabbed her makeup bag and begun redoing another layer of foundation. Her days of seeming normal were numbered and she was in no rush to shorten them by turning up looking as tired as she felt.

Minutes later she was out the door and halfway down the stairs, fake smile plastered on.

Show time.