Strange Infatuation Seems To Grace the Evening Tide
The drink may kill Peter but Carla did not think it would get its chance to slowly destroy her body. She was more than capable of doing that herself. And if it was a race between her deep-seated need to self-destruct and her desire to possess (or be possessed, as she was terrified the truth might be) against her emotional addiction to alcohol she would bet everything she had on what would kill her first.
The winter air chills her to the bone but it was wanted, deserved even. The physical discomfort felt almost cleansing, like she could be frozen with her pain and could become impenetrable.
It wasn't getting any easier; it was her dirty little secret behind the practiced smile. No one else could know because after a while trying to make her better became futile and they would give up and leave. Apparently there was a time limit on how long you could be a victim. She had never wanted to be that, but as more time went on it felt like it was all she had. And besides she had been so close to convincing herself with her own lies.
Michelle had called her earlier, her phone vibrating against the hard surface of the desk, the sound echoing loudly around the quiet darkness of the factory. Carla had jumped violently and then cursed herself for her weakness, for the way she could not keep the panic out of her voice when she finally answered the phone.
Part of her wanted to admit to the suspicious woman on the other end that she was not fine and that she did not want to be on her own any longer. But only lies had fallen from her tongue, in that frighteningly natural way she had become accustom to. She had traced her own lips with her fingers in distant wonder. Her smile was wide and unaware as it added a calculated lightness to her voice that felt so real she wondered if she had succumbed to psychosis.
After the call she had nervously reached for a hidden bottle of whiskey, closing her eyes against the fear that washed over her. Memories of unbelievable heat blistering as it filled her lungs, of the bitter taste of petrol on her tongue and the harshness of a gun firmly against her temple, but mostly of fighting, fighting with every last fibre of her being. She wondered if she could pinpoint the exact point she had finally given up or if it had been a gradual thing, each new tragedy snatching away at another piece of her. And maybe there had not been enough of her left to fight this latest trauma or if maybe she had finally accepted the futility of hope.
The alcohol was oddly unfitting and left her with a heavy nausea and unsettled terror. The walls were closing in and burned with so many ghosts. People had died here and somehow she had lived as if in punishment. So she had fled into the open air and just breathed.
It had never really been her vice but suddenly she craved another kind of intoxication. A few times as a teenager she had stolen a few lines or pills from her mother's secret stash, just to feel invincible, just to block the world out when she was not sure that it could ever get better. It had been the hard emptiness in her mother's eyes and the hollowness in her cheeks that had stopped it ever becoming an addiction but now she wondered how much there was left to destroy.
It was a clear night, the moon full and stark and she lifted her face towards it and closed her eyes, still and silent against the tremors that coursed through her body.
"Carr"
His hesitant voice was close even though she had not heard anyone approach her and yet she felt as if he was miles away. Absently she wondered about psychic connections but she did not want him, not now when she finally felt so removed from the rest of the world.
"Carla love." Peter tried again nervously watching closely to see if she heard him but she did not move apart from the gentle sway of her body that made him worried that she might fall.
They had not talked for a few days. Not since the night he spent holding her that had felt like home, not since he had let her down by returning to his life with his wife and son. He had never been a strong man and yet again he was breaking another promise.
He had not been excepting sympathy and determination from Leanne and in the haze of alcohol he forgot to put his son first yet again. Sober the world lost its clarity and Carla coldly avoided his gaze in public.
"Sweetheart" He moved to stroke her cheek and it was as if his touch had given her life as she sprang away from him, stumbling a little on heels and wet cobbles. He held out his hands in surrender, muttering reassurances as he tried to find any hint of recognition in her wild eyes.
"Peter" She whispered finally like she had seen a ghost. She was scaring him. He had sneaked out like a naughty child to drink and smoke away his own guilt and drama, he was not prepared to face anyone else especially her. He did not understand what she was thinking and that made him ache in a way that he thought it might cripple him.
She laughed then and he tucked the vodka bottle in a pocket needing both hands free in case she would do something dangerous and because it was a source of embarrassment and weakness for him.
"Peter" She said again, voice a little stronger and she licked her lips as if to taste the words. "What are you doing here?" Her head darted around taking in the surroundings as if she was finally coming up for air.
"Drinking, forgetting, picking at the same old scabs and wondering if I can ever stop fucking things up." He answered honest and vague and bitter. Leanne knew about his drinking and had been so unexpectedly saintly and forgiving. He had lain beside her awake in their bed and wondered how much of her reaction was from guilt from her own affair and if he was using Carla for his own twisted form of revenge. He was not sure when the cracks in their marriage had become gaping wounds.
"Hhhmmm, sounds strikingly familiar." Carla hummed pleasantly at their synergy.
"Are you drunk?" He frowned moving closer to clasp her hand and force her to actually focus on him. Her flightiness was new and unpredictable and concern sobered him a little.
"Yes, no, I have no idea. Do we really need to ask hard questions at this time of night?" She wined a little, almost stamping her foot, not present and childish as if she had lost her sense of reality. Her eyes narrowed a little as she looked him over, "Are you pissed?"
When he was certain she was comfortable with his touch he ran a hand gently over her bare arms trying to anchor her or himself he was not sure, "A little but I can't drink too much or Lee will notice."
She nodded eyes focused somewhere near his knees timid and absent all at once, "Should get myself a wife, best way to stay semi sober apparently."
"Carla" He scolded and apologised with the use of her name. There was none of her sharp humour, or accusation in her voice but he did not know what else she could have meant.
Then her eyes were on his, startling in their clarity that he almost recoiled.
"That's not what I meant. Are you angry?"
Peter had spent a lot of his life being angry and entitled. It was something he could not shake or let go but now, now he was only angry at himself.
"What do you mean?" He frowned, hating how she seemed so small "At you? God Carla. I wouldn't…I couldn't. Why an earth would you think that?" He blinked bewildered unable to comprehend what could have happened to make her behave so painfully bizarre.
She averted her eyes, glancing back towards the factory and narrowing them against a glossy sheen of tears. "I don't know" She whispered pursing her lips against a sudden bubble of hysterical laughter, "For not being strong enough. For everything." She shrugged pulling further away from him and wrapping her arms securely around her waist.
She makes his insides twist painfully, his concern growing as she continued to make less and less sense. He hated that this shadow of a normally magnificent woman was at least partially his fault. Even before the rape she had been struggling and all he had done was make things so much more complicated.
And even now, all that he tried only brought everyone he cared for more pain. He would never be able to shake the horror of holding her broken body begging her not to leave him and yet he might as well still be killing her.
He watched her carefully; dark eyes warm with concern even as he fought the bitterness that threatened to control him. Instead of sobering up he wanted to drink till he could forget his demons and the way she seemed unaware of her continuing silence or the way she shivered violently against the cold.
"Fuck love, its freezing. You are going to make yourself ill. Where's your coat?" He cursed himself for not noticing earlier, for not taking care of her once again when she clearly needed someone.
"In the factory," She replied glancing down at herself and he was at least glad she was answering him rationally.
"Okay, okay," He mumbled to himself pulling off his own jacket and placing it over her shoulders, trying to encourage her to uncross her arms to place them in the sleeves only made her tense so he backed off a little. He planned to take her back inside and sober her up enough that he was sure she would come back to herself. After the way she has selflessly saved him it was the least he could do.
He moved unconsciously to place a palm softly against her lower back turning her back towards the factory. She was a little unsteady on her feet, almost slipping once and gripping onto his elbow to stay upright. He was just about to check that she had the keys when they drew close enough to notice the main door wide open, a soft light from inside spilling out into the darkness.
"Carla you left the door open." He reminded her gently. Worried that she would have left her business unsecure all night.
"Oh, did I?" She replied, her expression betraying no reaction at something she would normally never do or would react ferociously if someone else had made the same mistake.
He could not take it any longer and pulled her chilled body into his arms. She went willingly but did not hold him back. But it was reassuring for Peter, just to reassure himself that physically she was there and that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his own.
There was something in the way she felt against him. The way she smelt so exotic yet familiar under the heavy leather smokiness of his own jacket that he had to close his eyes against the full force of how much he had missed her.
"Tell me what you need." He pleaded, one hand finding its way under the jacket seeking the warmth of her frame while the other smoothed the silky darkness of her hair. She did not answer at first but he was content with the even sound of her breathing.
He thought he had made a mistake when he felt her hands bunch fistfuls of his shirt against his chest but she did not push him away. Instead he felt her press her face into his shoulder, her lips grazing his neck. He shivered from more than coldness when her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "Take me home Peter." She whispered finally.