Chapter Text
Carla’s tired.
Fed up.
Her feet ache.
Her shoulders are sore.
She feels exhausted.
Seven days of consecutive shifts wiping her out entirely.
She needs to get out of hospitality.
Out of this little albeit wholesome cafe.
But she knows it’s a means to an end.
An in between job.
She has to pay the bills somehow.
And like fuck was she staying in Weatherfield.
Not after what happened with Peter.
Tina.
Rob.
The baby.
No fucking way.
Just the thought of the place is unbearable.
Her body shudders.
And rob…
Rob sat in that cold prison cell…
Fucking idiot.
Stupid fucking idiot.
She’s not sure who broke her heart more…
Peter or Rob.
Does she have to choose?
Both crumpled her vital organ into a thousand tiny pieces…
Both ruined her life in equal measure.
Both equally responsible for the loss of her baby girl.
Men are idiots.
Angry, pig headed idiots.
Except Roy of course, he’s the exception.
God does she miss Roy.
She speaks to him on the phone regularly but it’s not the same.
Not the same as popping into the caf every morning for her caffeine fix.
And don’t get her started on Michelle.
She feels like she’s left her right arm in Weatherfield.
But no Carla needed a change.
Needed air.
Fresh air.
Away from the city musk.
Away from the noise.
And so she ended up in Wales.
Not too far from Manchester, close enough to bob back when needed but far enough to be away from all the dark memories and heart ache over the past year.
She’s been here a few months now.
And she’s settling in well.
A far cry from what she’s used to.
But just what she needed.
A little seaside town.
Small.
Homely.
Quaint.
She’s swapped one cobbled flooring for another.
But these cobbles are fresh.
They don’t carry the weight of her demons, her trauma, her pain.
No, her feet carry them.
Does she get lonely??
Sometimes.
But at least she’s safe from being hurt again.
On her own, no risk of being hurt by others.
She hurts herself of course.
Dragging up the past over and over again in her head.
Trapped.
Trapped with her own ghosts.
Wracking her brain, wondering how it all went so wrong.
What could she have done differently?
Could she have loved Peter more??
Rob more??
Gave more time to Tina???
Is she a bad person?
Does she deserve these awful things that happen to her?
Tortures herself.
Tortures, tortures, tortures
But at least she’s the one doing the torturing this time.
She’s in control.
Because like fuck will she let any man do that to her again.
No. Fucking. Way.
She finishes wiping the last table.
Clocks off at 6pm.
Pulls the hood up on her coat.
It’s dark.
It’s fucking freezing.
The one thing about seaside towns is that they’re great in the summer but fucking miserable in the winter.
She makes her way to her little flat situated above an old brick-a-brac shop.
She likes the cute old man who owns it.
Waves her off to work every morning.
Sometimes gives her plates of food and bags of mint imperials.
Reminds her of Roy a bit.
Or maybe he doesn’t but she’s just trying to gain some familiarity.
Help make her feel less homesick.
No.
She’s not homesick.
Weatherfield isn’t her home anymore.
She twists the key in the yellow front door, slips on the step, the rain from earlier clinging to the slate.
“Fuckin, stupid step”
Slams the door behind her in annoyance.
Makes her way up the stairs.
Opens her flat door and immediately turns the heating on.
Rubs her hands together.
“Fuckin freezin”
Pulls her hood down and slips out of her coat, hanging it on the coat rack.
She stands.
Stares into the open space of her flat.
She’s made it cosy, cute.
Open planned kitchen and living room.
Nice green couch.
White rug.
Tv.
The main feature being the black spiral staircase in the centre leading up to the second floor of the apartment.
In which Carla’s decorated with fairy lights.
Not usually her cup of tea but she’s thrown herself into the ‘country’ living.
Wants to shed her old life.
Her old self.
Is she depressed?
No.
Don’t be soft.
She’s just fed up.
Yeah.
That’s it.
Fed up.
Down trodden.
Hard done by.
Going through the motions.
(And maybe some grief)
(Maybe)
She takes a deep sigh.
Another night of monotony.
But that’s okay.
Monotony is better than peril and anguish.
Yeah.
She’d take monotony any day.
She smiles.
Takes her shoes off.
Pops the kettle on.
Doesn’t really eat much these days.
Not much of an appetite.
But that’s fine.
That’s okay.
She’s still here.
Still alive.
Still kicking.
Unlike her baby girl.
Unlike Tina.
Fuck, this is shit.
She shakes her head.
Come on Carla, come on.
Flicks the tv on.
Anything to drown out the noise of her stupid, torturous head.
Pads up the metal staircase, over the landing and into the bathroom.
Turns the light on.
Begins to run herself a bath.
Just like the night before.
And the night before that.
And the night before that.
Monotonous, monotonous, monotonous
But that’s fine.
That’s okay.
She’s still here.
She shuffles back onto the landing and into her bedroom.
It’s nice enough.
Double bed.
Vanity.
Two open rails hanging her clothes, the room too small to fit wardrobes.
It’s fine.
She doesn’t care.
Not really bothered about what she wears or where her clothes hang anymore.
Could be dead couldn’t she.
Or sat in a prison cell.
And then clothing really wouldn’t matter.
But that’s fine.
That’s okay.
She’s still here.
She begins to strip her clothes, beige pinny discarded, folded up neatly for the following morning.
The rest get thrown in the laundry basket.
Ready for Sunday (laundry day).
(monotonous)
As she places her earrings on the vanity she catches a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror.
She jolts.
Shocked at the sight she’s faced with.
She stands directly in front of it.
Her mouth goes dry.
She feels prickles along her neck.
She doesn’t recognise herself.
She looks tired.
Warn out.
Sad???
Maybe.
Thin.
She looks thin.
Some would say gaunt.
Some would say run way ready.
But all she sees is a broken woman.
Not even a shadow of her former self.
God this is shit innit.
She knows what Roy would say.
What Michelle would say.
What Hayley would say…..
Eat.
Eat, Carla eat.
Christ Michelle would force the food down her gob no shits given.
She misses her.
Misses them all.
Her eyes fall to her stomach.
She places both of her hands over the soft skin of her tummy.
Rubs over it.
28 weeks.
7 months.
She should be 7 months pregnant now.
Her baby girl would have eye lashes.
Be able to open her eyes.
Blink.
Blink, blink, blink
Blink.
That’s what Carla did.
She blinked and her little girl was gone.
Barely here.
But the impact her barely here, blinking, open eyed, fluttered eye lashed girl had in such a short space of time…..
Well.
It speaks for itself doesn’t it.
Just looking at the carcass of a woman staring back at her shows the impact that tiny special thing had on Carla.
But it’s fine.
It’s okay.
She’s still here.
Thin.
But still here.
Tired.
But still here.
Fed up.
But still here.
Depressed, bereft, grief stricken.
But still here.
She takes a deep breath.
Her eyes now full of unshed tears.
How did that happen?
No don’t be soft Carla.
Get in the bath.
That’ll sort you out.
Always does.
She makes her way back to the bathroom.
Shoulders slightly more slumped.
Turns the tap off.
The steam from the heat of the water filling the room.
Water piping hot.
Practically scalding.
But at least this way she can feel something.
Anything.
Anything other than numbness.
She steps into the water.
Hisses at the heat.
Wonderful.
A feeling.
A reaction.
Slides her bum down and sits.
Lies back.
Stares at the ceiling.
Let’s the searing heat encompass her.
Skin gradually turning pink.
Feels like a lobster in a boiling pot.
No she doesn’t.
Lobsters scream when boiled.
Carla?
Carla feels nothing at all.
She slips down….
Fully submerging her head….
Hair floating…
Head swallowed whole….
Wonders if this is it…
If this is how she goes…
Enacts the same thing every night.
Every night.
Knows it’s not how she goes because unfortunately (fortunately) she’s just not that lucky….
And so Carla lies in the bath…
Kettle downstairs long forgotten.
Like the night before….
And the night before that…
And the night before that….