Frank threw her broken and abused body to the floor, and watched as Carla curled up in a vain attemped to protect herself. He finished buttoning up his shirt and lent foward. 'You made me do it, Carla, its your fault.' Then he left her, lying there on the cold, hard floor. Once he had gone Carla mustered up all the strength she had and pushed the door shut, then sank back on the floor. She didn't know what to do. She had just been raped and had no idea if he was coming back to hurt her again. She had no one. She thought about calling Maria but considering how she had reacted when Maria said Frank tried to rape her, she doubted Maria would even listen. There was no one else she could turn to and anyway, who would believe her, strong bitchy Carla Connor couldn't defend herself when Maria had managed to get away. She had no one, no one in the world who could save her from Frank...
That had all been 3 months ago, the first time he had attacked her. Now she just stayed in the flat and did what she was told. Frank had taken over everything that she had mind, body and soul. Carla was just a shell of what she had been. Frank ran the factory on his own, he had told every one that Carla had had a nervous breakdown so she was at a clinic in London having treatment. After the innital shock wore off no one seemed to care. No one knew that she was acculatley still in Weatherfeild, being beaten black and blue by the man who was surposed to take care of her.
Carla looked at the clock, it read 16:47, over a hour until Frank would was most likely to come back and her nightmare would begin again. She never knew when he would come back and wether he had been drinking or not, he was always worse when he was drunk. If she was lucky he wouldn't hit her at all, that did happen once in a while if he had a paticulally good day, but unlikely. Carla got up from the sofa and limped over to the kitchen to put some wine in the fridge. He always liked a drink when he got in, regardless of the day he had and if he was already smashed. 3 days ago Carla had forgotten and fallen asleep on the sofa and he had stamped on her ankle as a punishment. It still hurt to walk on. After seeing to a bottle of red, Carla stood up and caught a glimpse of herself in the door of the oven. She looked like death warmed up. Her face was a mixture of cuts and bruises and one hell of a black eye were Frank had punched her a few days prevously. She couldn't remember why, sometimes he would just hit her to make her remember her place.
Carla thought to herself. When did I become this, this shell, this fragment of what I used to be? When did he completly take over me? Was it that night 3 months ago, or later on when I gave up struggling and just begged him to stop? But he'll never stop, not unless someone realises or I get away. Not that either will happen.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door...