12.
Three days later Carla still hadn't moved from her hotel. The barmen had grown used to the pale-faced woman in the brown track suit; the one with the sharp tongue, witty comebacks, and bags round her downcast eyes. They had grown accustomed to her incessant orders and her need to drink herself into sweet oblivion; something which had given rise to speculation between themselves.
Carla was the only person at the bar. The two barmen eyed her from the other end as they whispered to each other stories about her. Their imagination was running wild and she was quickly becoming their source of entertainment. Meanwhile, oblivious of their discussion, Carla had her head in her hands, her eyes focusing on the bar bench on which she was resting on. Her head then lifted slightly; just enough to get the men's attention and to buy herself another drink. A glass with opaque liquid soon joined the empty four which lay in front of her. The glass was soon in Carla's hands being drawn towards her lips. She raised her head ever so slightly; just enough for her to neck her drink.
Two drinks later, Carla was still sat in the same position; frequently rubbing her forehead, or running her hand through her hair. She was constantly looking behind her shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the area. Her body tensed each time she heard the noise of shuffling feet approach her. Frank was still there taunting her and backing her into an invisible corner. As someone approached her, her mind and heart started racing. Involuntary, she placed her arm round her chest, as if to protect herself. She let her dishevelled hair fall in front of her face, a brown veil hiding her fearful gaze, as she rested her head on her other hand.
"I wonder what he wants," a voice in her head whispered suggestively.
"He's undressing you with his looks," another uttered, as Carla pressed her fingers against her head, yearning to block them out.
She heard the stool screech as its legs scratched the floor; the noise reverberating in her head. "Can I offer you a drink?" she suddenly heard the bald forty-year-old, sitting next to her, utter.
Carla pursed her lips. She willed him to go away, she willed him to ignore her. She tried to pretend he wasn't there, that she was alone. However, her head was screaming differently.
"Leave," one of the voices nagged. "Get out of here."
"Danger," the other whispered in agreement.
Hard as it was, Carla tried to ignore their cries. She yearned to restore full control of herself, her actions, her choices, and her situations. However, his presence, along with her body's reaction to him, was making it impossible for her to endure.
She raised her head and quietly signalled for the bar man as she ordered the finest bottle of Shiraz. Bottle in hand, she wobbled off her stool, nearly toppling over. She crossed the room and aimed for the lift, focusing on the red patterned carpet beneath her feet; the way each circular pattern intermeshed with the one next to it, the way the central pattern formed what looked like an over detailed design of every cut and curve of a rose's petals. With the opening of the lift's doors, a bell rang out, causing a distrait Carla to jump.
As soon as she arrived on her floor she scurried towards her room before slamming the door shut behind her, sending an echo down the narrow corridor. She leaned against the nearest wall and breathed out a sigh of relief before she started fumbling with the bottle of deep violet liquid as she struggled to open it.
Finally succeeding in removing the bottle's challenging cork, she let go of the corkscrew, letting it tumble across the room. It was probably one of the most useful things she had found in her hotel room; the cursed hotel room that had opened new doors, along with new pathways for new nightmares. It had brought back the old numbness, the fiery burn in her chest and hands; a need that created a yearning to act out and do something to help her let it all out. It had ushered in a constant need to scream until her head imploded and destroyed the images that were on constant replay. She shook her head yearning for the possibility to shake off all her memories and thoughts with one little rough shake. The only other solution she could think of was in her hands. She stared at the bottle, before bringing the bottle's neck to her lips. The drink gushed through her lips and down her throat; its bold, hearty, dry taste of spicy, alcoholic blackberry greatly welcomed. Her eyes had a tired, distant look as she paced round the room, going from one end to the other constantly raising the bottle up towards her mouth.
The first signs of sunlight stretched their long hands and made it through the windows of the hotel room. The pastel orange and yellow beams split into tens of rays, one of which found its end on Carla's blotched face. She was sitting on the floor, knees up in front of her. The hand which had previously clutched them tightly to her chest, now hang loosely by her side, whilst the other held the now empty wine bottle. The few drops which had survived from being imbibed had now transferred themselves onto the cream carpet beneath her, staining it. The penetrating rays of light made it impossible not to wake up. She gave a long, heavy sigh in her sleep as she attempted to reposition herself, but only succeeded in bumping her head to the wooden post at the foot of the bed, on which her head had rested on during the night. Her eyes opened slowly, forming a narrow slit. Her head felt as though someone was pounding on it, inducing a circumstantial amount of pressure on it. She attempted to stretch her neck to try and relieve it off its stiffness. However, the sudden movement made her head spin faster than before. She placed one hand over her eyes, rubbing them, and then moved on to rub her temple, whilst with the other she felt around and reached for her bag. Her hand dived in it, searching for her little white saviours which she quickly chased down with the first bottle she could get her fingers on. Her stomach muscle tightened as her drink's strong level of alcohol burnt her dry throat. She shivered slightly before downing the remaining sickly sweet and grainy, pale golden-coloured liquid.
Her fingers drummed against her knee as she stared at the varnished wooden surface of the cupboard opposite her.
The quiet stillness in the room was slowly broken by a growing noise of crackling and humming. This too was suddenly interrupted. "Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie," a honeyed voice sing sang, "kissed the girls, and made them cry."
"Fool," a low husky voice jumped in.
"Peter, cheater," the honeyed voice said.
"It's your fault," Frank's voice jumped in, to which her body instantly tensed.
"It's always your fault," another voice shrilled.
An agitated Carla had her head in her hands, her fingers pressing tightly into her forehead and the side of her face, silently begging for the ongoing torment to stop.
The voices suddenly halted, giving the floor to a deafening silence. The eerie stillness rang in her ears, slowly transforming into a low voiced laugh which could barely be heard. However, the noise progressed in its volume, until the noise of children's laughter echoed around her. It was a fruity, yet taunting laugh. It made her feel young and helpless all over again. She willed herself to shrug it off; to ignore it; to get herself out of the self pitying zone and back together. Her head felt as though it was made of cotton wool, and she was lost in its soft fluffiness. However, even in her befuddled state she knew she had to get out of those four enclosing walls.
Twenty minutes later, she was sat in her car looking more like the old Carla. Her face was made up, and she was sporting a completely different look from that of the last few days. Her tracksuit had been traded in for her black leather trousers and cream woollen top. She was back on high heels, with her happy smiley mask tightly secured on her face. Yet, her head was anywhere but on the road in front of her. As new bubbles of thought burst open around her head she tried her best to keep her eyes on her surroundings. Due to all the chaos in her mind, she was struggling to find her footing in the most simplest of things. Her head was a jumbled up mess. She failed to sort one thing from another. She failed to understand what was going on. Part of her head was flashing its red light, screaming for her to run away from her reality. Meanwhile, another part of her sought to shake her awake. As often times before, Carla felt like a mere spectator of her own body which was leading a life she failed to recognise. It wasn't herself anymore. She couldn't catch up with recent events. She failed to understand the significance behind anything that she had endured in the last few days; Peter and Tina fumbling in her bed, Frank's appearance, the assault, the ongoing commentary in her head. Her mind was swirling round in circles, and her chest was quickly moving from experiencing a deep dark hollow hole in its centre, to feeling as though everything was caving in on her, enslaving her in their tight grasp; a grasp which contained enough power to pulverise her into the finest particles of dust.
As she neared the cobbled streets of Weatherfield, her heart increased in its pace, thumping against the restricting seat belt. During times like these, she often wondered on her true capability of mastering the strong and domineering façade, especially when underneath it all, everything was covered in deep faults and cracks. However, to her favour, the majority turned a blind eye and few were the ones who had the pleasure of being graced with the power of the all-seeing eye where Carla was concerned.
Parking as close as possible to Underworld, Carla rushed to the factory and into her office.
"I wasn't expecting you here so soon," Michelle greeted her, with a surprised look on her face.
"Yeah well, there's only so much staring I can endure," Carla retorted, as she crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked around her.
"Only you would choose work over a little break, in a poshy hotel no doubt," Michelle said, her lips twisting up into a smile.
"You know me, I'm not that kind of girl," Carla uttered, scrunching her nose. "But no really, I'd rather keep myself busy."
Michelle looked at her closely, but Carla tried to avoid eye contact.
"I have a meeting with Sid Altree this afternoon," Michelle told her. "You can take over that."
"Just the man I need," Carla muttered beneath her breath.
"Or we can do it together," Michelle continued.
Carla finally looked at Michelle in the face. "Ta," she uttered.
Her solemn gaze was welcomed with a concerned stare. The glint in her eyes didn't go unnoticed. "How are you doing?" Michelle asked, awakening a gallimaufry of noises in Carla's head.
"She knows," the female honeyed voice shrieked.
"Stupid," another commented.
"You're a waste of skin," Leanne's voice echoed in her head.
Carla jumped and looked over her shoulders, before bowing her head; entering her own reclusive bubble.
The name calling persisted.
"Fool," a harsh voice shouted. "Worthless. You're worthless."
Michelle's fretful voice then ushered her back to her current surroundings, "Carla?"
"Don't talk to her," the male domineering voice ordered her.
Carla looked at her and tried to shrug them off. "I'm fine," she muttered.
"Liar," the female voice scolded her as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "She'll know you're lying."
"She'll know."
"Everything's fine," Carla mumbled to herself, whilst slamming the papers down in front of her, as Michelle left the room to make a cup of coffee.
Two hours later, Carla and Michelle were sat at the Bistro with a load of papers in front of them trying to negotiate and get Sid to sign a new contract. Carla's head was screaming along with the chaotic noise within it. As Sid lowered his hand, away from her sight, the noise grew louder. The humming, the voices, and the occasional laughter echoed in her head, and she almost expected everyone else to hear them. She gave a slight jump as soon as anything new occurred.
"This is the lowest we can go," Michelle uttered in the background, as she pointed at the figures which Carla had worked on during the last two hours.
Carla stared at the paper, her eyes slowly widening, as she sipped her glass of wine.
As Sid leaned forward, his hands brushed against her thigh. She spilled some of the wine on her. With one simple foreign touch she could almost feel Frank's hot revolting breath on her face. Simultaneously, her insides froze for a few seconds, before everything rushed back to work quickening their pace. Her brain felt as though it had gone into overdrive, however, apart from the chaos within it, it failed to process any information.
Michelle nudged her from underneath the table. Michelle's arm felt as though it was surrounded by a padded layer of tissue.
"You've been awfully quiet Carla. It's not like you," Sid commented. "What's brewing?"
Slowly emerging from her haze, Carla scrunched the bridge of her nose. "Ay?" she asked confused.
"My wife usually only zips her constantly-rambling big mouth when she's too busy with her brewing thoughts," he explained.
"Well I'm not your wife, am I?" Carla snapped.
"You sure aren't," he said. He looked at the paper in front of him before he started again. "So tell me Carla, have you replaced Peter with Michelle?"
"Err, what?" Carla asked, as Michelle eyed the two of them.
"If I'm honest, I'd rather work with her rather than with that husband of yours," he continued.
"And we all know why that is," Carla muttered.
"Don't trust him," a voice whispered.
"You know what he's after," a plumy voice remarked in a superior tone.
Carla scoffed. "Oh, you are all the same."
The noisy chortle increased its loudness.
"Dirty."
"Leave," the female voice begged. "Protect us."
Sid eyed her curiously. "What do you mean by that?" he quickly and gruffly asked.
Carla replied with a mocking laugh. As she opened her mouth to say something, Michelle was quick to interrupt her. "Do we have an agreement then?" she asked him, hoping to divert the subject to a safer one.
"Ever the innocent," Carla uttered. "Innocent. Who does he think he is? Flaming Madonna?"
Sid glared at her. "What is she on about?" he asked Michelle gruffly.
"Maybe we should just focus on this order," Michelle tried again.
"He's such a slime ball," a voice in Carla's head cried.
"You need to put him in his place," another suggested.
"Do it."
"Show him who's boss."
"He's looking at you weirdly. He thinks you're crazy."
"Do it."
"He knows about us. He knows."
"Protect us. Leave."
"No. Stay."
"Talk about the order," one of them reminded her. "They're staring at you."
Carla rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry," she started.
"Why are you apologising?" a voice asked.
Sid poured himself another glass of wine. He then raised his head and examined her face. "Is it already getting to your head?" he asked with a laugh.
Carla nodded. Sid's explanation was the best she could think of, but from Michelle's look she knew it wasn't enough to convince her.
"I hope you don't mind if I indulge in another bottle," Sid said as he patted Carla's knee. Her eyes blinked rapidly and involuntarily, as she tried to resist the urge to gag. She closed her thighs tighter to each other and clasped her trembling hands so tightly she almost hurt herself.
She lowered her eyes as Michelle and Sid finally started discussing dates and deliveries.
"Do it," the voice repeated once more.
"Don't let him get away with it," the female voice instructed her.
"Are you going to sit there and say nothing?" the other asked in disbelief.
"Do it."
"You should do it."
A new child-like voice popped up. "Do it. Do it. Do it," it chanted. Each syllable echoed and pounded in her head.
"Shut up," Carla whispered, covering her face in her hands.
They taunted her. "You're pathetic."
"Do it."
"Stop," Carla begged in a wobbly voice. "Just stop," she then shouted.
"Woops," one of the male voices uttered as Carla slowly realised she had spoken the last few words out loud.
Michelle and Sid turned to look at her. Michelle's face was etched with surprise and worry; her eyes nearly bulging out of their place, and her eyebrows raised. Meanwhile, Sid's head tilted slightly in aghast. His lips were tightly pursed in a straight line. "What now?" Sid asked a mortified Carla.
Carla shook her head, and quickly grabbed her jacket and bag and ran towards the Bistro's doors.
"I'm so sorry," Michelle apologised, as she stood up planning on following Carla. "So I'll call you, and we'll sort the rest of the details another time, if that's okay with you."
"I didn't like Carla's tone, but the figures look promising," Sid commented. "I'll send in the paperwork someday later this week." He dropped a few pound notes on the table, and then took Michelle's hand and placed a slobbering kiss on it before walking out.
As Carla scurried to her car she bumped into a drunk Peter.
"I need to speak to you," he started.
"Not now Peter," she shouted as she continued walking.
"Please Carla. I miss you," he slurred.
"You only have yourself to blame," she retorted. "You blew your chances. You threw everything away, not me. You did it all by yourself."
"Let's go inside," he said.
Carla paused to look at him, shaking her head in incredulity. "Goodbye Peter," she told him, before hurrying to her car.
She raced past him, and once she was out of his sight she thumped the steering wheel in frustration. She yearned to be able to just pull herself together, to put on the strong woman façade and be able to fool everyone. Yet, recently, she felt as though someone was yanking her strings. No matter what she willed her body to do, no matter what she set her mind on doing, it was always turning out different from what and how she planned it. She no longer knew who the person behind the image she saw in the mirror was. She desired to find at least one aspect that could give her back some control; something she could recognise as part of who she knew herself to be; a familiar characteristic or feeling that defined her. Her current state of being was taking her back to her childhood and early teenage years, to feelings she had always ran away from; feelings she had sought to bury and abolish; feelings of helplessness, inferiority and emptiness. The same numbness. The same questions that often popped in her head. The same darkness that often surrounded her and her identity. The current jabs were no different from the taunting and bullying she used to receive at school. Each new failure, each rejection, each betrayal all solidified what she used to believe.
She had never been much of a writer. She wasn't one for wallowing in self pity, or one of those girls who emptied their souls, and heart's desires and misery onto sheets of paper. She wished to believe she wasn't the kind to repeatedly ransack the same events in her head. She was better than that. Besides, she wasn't about to leave her miserable life story lying around for everyone to read and dissect. She thus couldn't understand what her fingers were doing when halfway down another paragraph she realised that amongst the smudged ink and scrawly handwriting there laid more truth than she had ever thought of.
"That cider was ranch. I'm not even sure why I decided to taste it. I used to swear on our kid's life that I never would. The way mum, dad and George (uhhhhh!) act when they're on the booze is enough to put anyone off it. Then again, I'm never sure that's all they've taken. BUT now I've tried it I realise that I've always underestimated its power," Carla wrote. "Once the first few sips were down I got curious. All I wanted was to see what it felt like… I think. Or at least, that's how it started off. It didn't take long before I was giggling away at the bottle in my hand like a demented fool. That giddy feeling side tricked me. I was no longer feeling pathetic. I felt like I could say whatever I wanted and be fine with it. I was no longer worrying about what others might say. For the first time in ages, I felt free. The jitters in my stomach were gone; soon to be replaced by a new form of queasiness in my stomach—that caused by the booze. It erased this black hole, this feeling of not knowing who I am. I mean, I'm Carla Donovan and I'm thirteen years old. I live in the most ghastly of areas with a brother and an alcoholic set of parents who sometimes also do and sell drugs. But other than that, I don't know who I am or what defines me. I don't even have much of a personality. But I do have one power. Without doing anything, I repel people away from me. Few are the ones who stick around to try and get to know me. I cannot say I blame them though. I sometimes feel as though I'm no one in particular. There are two year olds who have more of a personality than me. I feel like I'm in this bubble. It isolates me from everyone else and sometimes cushions everything about me rendering me almost lifeless. There's this emptiness which I don't know how to fill. I could be anyone. There's nothing that cries my name. Nothing and no one."
