RP: These are the Dreams I'll Dream Instead
Date: Monday, 21 Nov 2011
Characters: Carrie Harper, Alice Langley
Location: Chez Uncle Matthew
Status: Private
Summary: Living in a powder-keg, and givin' off sparks.
Completion: Complete
She closed the door gently behind her, instead of slamming it.
The way she wanted to do.
The way she'd wanted to do almost the whole damn day, and couldn't, because she'd been at work. In public. You didn't do that in public. You sucked it up, put a pretty smile on, and pretend it didn't hurt. Kept laughing, making believe that the person who'd hurt you hadn't dealt you a blow. And she had. Sweet little obliging Carrie had played her part well, laughing in the right places, saying all the right things, and no one had noticed the recoil she'd done, or even the tense set to her body for the rest of the day. Grandmother might have even been proud, if she had ever secretly been proud of her in her life, which Carrie doubted. No, not doubt; there would have been nothing for Mary Brandon to be proud of, not with her being a constant, living reminder that Mary's daughter hadn't been so easily controlled. And Carrie had her own pride, her own fuse, though they were so deeply hidden that finding either took work.
And both were fired up now. Her shoulders were aching from how hard it had been to keep still all day, instead of flinging her apron aside and driving until she had no clue where she was. Which wouldn't be hard, she told herself as she all but ran up the stairs, in a state so big with which she had no familiarity, but maybe that was half of why the idea had charm. Getting out of town long enough to feel like she could breathe again -- she could do that. Throw things in a suitcase and drive until she was too tired to keep going, find a hotel, and then do it again the next day. Slamming her purse down on the bed, much to Aloysius's dismay, she started back downstairs, hoping fervently that Uncle Matthew had been kept late, and that Lis hadn't decided to come home early. Someone else in the house right now would just...no, she couldn't deal with that right now. Couldn't pretend for someone else.
Putting a hand to her shoulder and rolling it, she forced her jaw to unclench as she stormed into the kitchen. There was still some rum left - though she'd need to stop by the store at some point to pick up another bottle, since they'd finally killed this one - and it was a "drink" sort of night, it really was. She rarely had them, and was too careful a drinker to let it go too far, but she couldn't fob this off and relax if she stuck to juice or water. And she wasn't going anywhere else tonight, not with how on edge she was. Taking a highball glass from the liquor cabinet, and lifting out the bottle of rum, she poured in a little more than she usually did, and started back to the kitchen to find the Coke. Though she was tempted to just drink the damn rum straight; might relax her faster, or at least she could hope. She pulled the Coke from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and adding some to her glass, before replacing it and turning to go out to the stairs. No point in being down here; in her room, she could fume in peace, get this out of her system.
Carrie stopped mid-step, turning her head to better see what had caught her attention. In her uncle's handwriting was a small note, her name much bigger at the top, resting over a box. Curling her lip unconsciously, she sneered faintly. Hadn't she spent months avoiding it, the last time a box had arrived like this? And the thought of another button mercilessly tromped, even if she felt like she couldn't possibly have any more, made her growl under her breath. If this was another "offering"...
But it wasn't. Not like that, anyway. She blinked, several times, as she read the scrawl she and Lis often told him meant he should have been a doctor --
Caddie,
The stress ball didn't work, and these can't be used because they're chipped. Do yourself a favor.
A favor?
Carrie lifted the flaps and looked inside, before laughing painfully, sharp and harsh. Well, then. She put the note aside without another look, and picked the box up to settle it under her left arm, rum-and-Coke in her right hand. Turning to head outside instead of upstairs, she let herself out the back door, put drink and box on the patio table, then went searching for the tarp she was pretty sure was still around somewhere. She spread it under the far window, giving herself plenty of room, unfolding it out all the way to cover as much space as it could, then stepped back, coolly eying it.
It'd do.
She went back to the table, took a long pull from her drink that did nothing to make her feel any better, then opened the box, taking out the first glass. This is violent, a back corner of her brain whispered, and Carrie snarled without thinking. At this point, who cared? She had to do something, anything to keep from exploding. It was too much; she was done. And maybe breaking something would do what everything else had failed to do -- who would think calm, always helpful Carrie would do something like this? Carrie who was always there to fix things, soothe nightmares, run interference, put herself on the line...
The glass was out of her hand before she'd even registered she'd thrown it, a dart of adrenaline stabbing through her chest. The smash was intoxicating; maybe that should have worried her, but it didn't. Quiet little Carrie who never said a word, no, not a word of reproof; that would be mean. She flung the next, trying not to gasp at how the force made her already sore shoulders ache, then growled and reached for the next. Kind Carrie whose only apparent worth or virtue was her brownies. Biting down hard at the scream that was making her throat burn, she pushed both hands into her hair, trying not to cry in rage. Damn brownies. Damn baking. Was that all she was? The girl who made treats for other people for them to feel better? What about when she fell? Who'd be there to catch her? Oh, no, that's right; I'm just the little sweetheart who fixes everybody else's aches, and never thinks to ask for anything in return. Look at how I keep getting slapped back when... She howled quietly in frustration, throwing the next glass even harder, sobbing under her breath. Where do you get off, telling me I'm a bad friend, a bad girlfriend, a bad sister, and then telling me to dance to your tune? Expecting me to drop my life for you? Silently putting a name and a face to the next, she hurled it roughly at the wall. Telling me my place, my worth. Calling my mother's family wrong for what they did, then turn around and do it yourself. Where do you get off? The fifth and sixth followed, one right after the other, as she muttered something she couldn't bring herself to be ashamed of in the heat of the moment. Tell me that since I started dating, I've apparently lost my ability to think for myself.
Because I'm Carrie? Is that what it is? She stopped, eyes dropping to the seventh glass in her hand, though she barely saw it. Little girl from a good family, despite having to fight for everything I've ever had? Despite hating that I'm related to them? Spending so much time worrying it'll all be taken away, no matter what? Sighing heavily, she tightened her fingers on it, feeling suddenly deflated. Things hadn't been any better in Washington, even if it was more familiar territory up there. Would it be worth it to go back? Back to the games she at least knew how to pretend to play? At least there, she knew when she was being used. Was "used" too hard a word? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was more that she knew how to tell when someone there wasn't telling her the whole truth, angling for something for her to give them in return for their attention. God, when did I get so dramatic... She ought to just suck this up too, continue accepting that sometimes you had to put up with the pain in order not to rock the boat.
The sudden rush of rage made her weak, so weak, at how her body flooded with the resurge of adrenaline. Why do I have to be the one to keep quiet? Keep harping about how no one cares about you, no one listens, and when I try to show it, you get upset... She launched the glass at the wall, chest heaving, mind half-seeing someone in front of her as a target. Not good enough for you? That what it is? Huh? Not good enough because I can't give you everything? Well, SCREW YOU! She inhaled harshly, never so glad that houses in this neighborhood weren't as closely set together as other places, because she'd never be able to live it down if some prying little biddy decided to gossip about Matthew Harper's niece breaking things in his backyard. Stupid gossip; stupid need to play the "I've got a secret and you don't!" game. Stupid damn power trips. She put a name and face to the eighth glass and heaved it even more ferociously, wishing passionately that the person in question were there to see. See how much she wanted them to understand she'd never think of them in the same way. Ever. Ever again, you jerk. You underestimated how deep Caroline Harper runs, didn't you, and how much I will make sure you remember me. Did you think I was going to lie down and let you keep walking over me? Like HELL! With a noise of anger she couldn't control, she threw that one too, not caring anymore that doing so that hard was going to make her shoulders, sore from tension added to the normal work-day wear-and-tear, hurt even more, possibly do damage.
"Carrie?"
She whirled her head around, and watched her sister take a nervous step back through the doorway. "What?"
"I was..." Lis wet her lips as her eyes ducked down to the pile of shattered glass shards covering the tarp. "...wondering if you needed anything."
Welcoming the cold rush in her chest as the anger congealed to a hard, tight, leaden ball, Carrie shrugged dispassionately, not caring at the moment if she was icy, less than her normal, fairly welcoming self. "A million dollars after taxes, a getaway car, and something blunt to use as a bludgeon?" She almost smiled, feeling feral, as Lis blinked. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Looking like it was despite herself, Lis tilted her head and looked her in the eye. "I've never seen you angry enough to break things; you're too concerned about how it looks and breaking other people's things." She looked down, urging Jasper and Horace back inside with her calf. "And I'm not..." Lis raised her head again.
"I haven't snapped." In a small, detached part of her brain, Carrie noted how cool her voice was, wondered almost curiously if she could snap, what could push her to that. "If that's what you're asking." She started over to the tarp, beginning to lift the corners in to make an awkward bundle that she could carry over and empty into the trash can. "And Uncle Matt's the one who gave me the glasses." Unable to help the dark chuckle low in her throat, she shrugged. "If you were wondering."
Lis cleared her throat softly behind her. "Hadn't yet, but okay." Coming out and shutting the door behind her so the dogs couldn't follow, she stuck both hands in her pockets, watching silently for a moment before speaking again. "Qui a fait ma sœur en colère?"
"Don't worry about it." She knew it was curt, knew it was too dismissive for her own sister, especially when it was Lis, but the cold, lead ball in her chest was seeping into her bones, and she just didn't care. "Nothing. Just..." She paused, smile dark and sharp. "Blowing off steam, was all."
Characters: Carrie Harper, Alice Langley
Location: Chez Uncle Matthew
Status: Private
Summary: Living in a powder-keg, and givin' off sparks.
Completion: Complete
She closed the door gently behind her, instead of slamming it.
The way she wanted to do.
The way she'd wanted to do almost the whole damn day, and couldn't, because she'd been at work. In public. You didn't do that in public. You sucked it up, put a pretty smile on, and pretend it didn't hurt. Kept laughing, making believe that the person who'd hurt you hadn't dealt you a blow. And she had. Sweet little obliging Carrie had played her part well, laughing in the right places, saying all the right things, and no one had noticed the recoil she'd done, or even the tense set to her body for the rest of the day. Grandmother might have even been proud, if she had ever secretly been proud of her in her life, which Carrie doubted. No, not doubt; there would have been nothing for Mary Brandon to be proud of, not with her being a constant, living reminder that Mary's daughter hadn't been so easily controlled. And Carrie had her own pride, her own fuse, though they were so deeply hidden that finding either took work.
And both were fired up now. Her shoulders were aching from how hard it had been to keep still all day, instead of flinging her apron aside and driving until she had no clue where she was. Which wouldn't be hard, she told herself as she all but ran up the stairs, in a state so big with which she had no familiarity, but maybe that was half of why the idea had charm. Getting out of town long enough to feel like she could breathe again -- she could do that. Throw things in a suitcase and drive until she was too tired to keep going, find a hotel, and then do it again the next day. Slamming her purse down on the bed, much to Aloysius's dismay, she started back downstairs, hoping fervently that Uncle Matthew had been kept late, and that Lis hadn't decided to come home early. Someone else in the house right now would just...no, she couldn't deal with that right now. Couldn't pretend for someone else.
Putting a hand to her shoulder and rolling it, she forced her jaw to unclench as she stormed into the kitchen. There was still some rum left - though she'd need to stop by the store at some point to pick up another bottle, since they'd finally killed this one - and it was a "drink" sort of night, it really was. She rarely had them, and was too careful a drinker to let it go too far, but she couldn't fob this off and relax if she stuck to juice or water. And she wasn't going anywhere else tonight, not with how on edge she was. Taking a highball glass from the liquor cabinet, and lifting out the bottle of rum, she poured in a little more than she usually did, and started back to the kitchen to find the Coke. Though she was tempted to just drink the damn rum straight; might relax her faster, or at least she could hope. She pulled the Coke from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and adding some to her glass, before replacing it and turning to go out to the stairs. No point in being down here; in her room, she could fume in peace, get this out of her system.
Carrie stopped mid-step, turning her head to better see what had caught her attention. In her uncle's handwriting was a small note, her name much bigger at the top, resting over a box. Curling her lip unconsciously, she sneered faintly. Hadn't she spent months avoiding it, the last time a box had arrived like this? And the thought of another button mercilessly tromped, even if she felt like she couldn't possibly have any more, made her growl under her breath. If this was another "offering"...
But it wasn't. Not like that, anyway. She blinked, several times, as she read the scrawl she and Lis often told him meant he should have been a doctor --
Caddie,
The stress ball didn't work, and these can't be used because they're chipped. Do yourself a favor.
A favor?
Carrie lifted the flaps and looked inside, before laughing painfully, sharp and harsh. Well, then. She put the note aside without another look, and picked the box up to settle it under her left arm, rum-and-Coke in her right hand. Turning to head outside instead of upstairs, she let herself out the back door, put drink and box on the patio table, then went searching for the tarp she was pretty sure was still around somewhere. She spread it under the far window, giving herself plenty of room, unfolding it out all the way to cover as much space as it could, then stepped back, coolly eying it.
It'd do.
She went back to the table, took a long pull from her drink that did nothing to make her feel any better, then opened the box, taking out the first glass. This is violent, a back corner of her brain whispered, and Carrie snarled without thinking. At this point, who cared? She had to do something, anything to keep from exploding. It was too much; she was done. And maybe breaking something would do what everything else had failed to do -- who would think calm, always helpful Carrie would do something like this? Carrie who was always there to fix things, soothe nightmares, run interference, put herself on the line...
The glass was out of her hand before she'd even registered she'd thrown it, a dart of adrenaline stabbing through her chest. The smash was intoxicating; maybe that should have worried her, but it didn't. Quiet little Carrie who never said a word, no, not a word of reproof; that would be mean. She flung the next, trying not to gasp at how the force made her already sore shoulders ache, then growled and reached for the next. Kind Carrie whose only apparent worth or virtue was her brownies. Biting down hard at the scream that was making her throat burn, she pushed both hands into her hair, trying not to cry in rage. Damn brownies. Damn baking. Was that all she was? The girl who made treats for other people for them to feel better? What about when she fell? Who'd be there to catch her? Oh, no, that's right; I'm just the little sweetheart who fixes everybody else's aches, and never thinks to ask for anything in return. Look at how I keep getting slapped back when... She howled quietly in frustration, throwing the next glass even harder, sobbing under her breath. Where do you get off, telling me I'm a bad friend, a bad girlfriend, a bad sister, and then telling me to dance to your tune? Expecting me to drop my life for you? Silently putting a name and a face to the next, she hurled it roughly at the wall. Telling me my place, my worth. Calling my mother's family wrong for what they did, then turn around and do it yourself. Where do you get off? The fifth and sixth followed, one right after the other, as she muttered something she couldn't bring herself to be ashamed of in the heat of the moment. Tell me that since I started dating, I've apparently lost my ability to think for myself.
Because I'm Carrie? Is that what it is? She stopped, eyes dropping to the seventh glass in her hand, though she barely saw it. Little girl from a good family, despite having to fight for everything I've ever had? Despite hating that I'm related to them? Spending so much time worrying it'll all be taken away, no matter what? Sighing heavily, she tightened her fingers on it, feeling suddenly deflated. Things hadn't been any better in Washington, even if it was more familiar territory up there. Would it be worth it to go back? Back to the games she at least knew how to pretend to play? At least there, she knew when she was being used. Was "used" too hard a word? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was more that she knew how to tell when someone there wasn't telling her the whole truth, angling for something for her to give them in return for their attention. God, when did I get so dramatic... She ought to just suck this up too, continue accepting that sometimes you had to put up with the pain in order not to rock the boat.
The sudden rush of rage made her weak, so weak, at how her body flooded with the resurge of adrenaline. Why do I have to be the one to keep quiet? Keep harping about how no one cares about you, no one listens, and when I try to show it, you get upset... She launched the glass at the wall, chest heaving, mind half-seeing someone in front of her as a target. Not good enough for you? That what it is? Huh? Not good enough because I can't give you everything? Well, SCREW YOU! She inhaled harshly, never so glad that houses in this neighborhood weren't as closely set together as other places, because she'd never be able to live it down if some prying little biddy decided to gossip about Matthew Harper's niece breaking things in his backyard. Stupid gossip; stupid need to play the "I've got a secret and you don't!" game. Stupid damn power trips. She put a name and face to the eighth glass and heaved it even more ferociously, wishing passionately that the person in question were there to see. See how much she wanted them to understand she'd never think of them in the same way. Ever. Ever again, you jerk. You underestimated how deep Caroline Harper runs, didn't you, and how much I will make sure you remember me. Did you think I was going to lie down and let you keep walking over me? Like HELL! With a noise of anger she couldn't control, she threw that one too, not caring anymore that doing so that hard was going to make her shoulders, sore from tension added to the normal work-day wear-and-tear, hurt even more, possibly do damage.
"Carrie?"
She whirled her head around, and watched her sister take a nervous step back through the doorway. "What?"
"I was..." Lis wet her lips as her eyes ducked down to the pile of shattered glass shards covering the tarp. "...wondering if you needed anything."
Welcoming the cold rush in her chest as the anger congealed to a hard, tight, leaden ball, Carrie shrugged dispassionately, not caring at the moment if she was icy, less than her normal, fairly welcoming self. "A million dollars after taxes, a getaway car, and something blunt to use as a bludgeon?" She almost smiled, feeling feral, as Lis blinked. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Looking like it was despite herself, Lis tilted her head and looked her in the eye. "I've never seen you angry enough to break things; you're too concerned about how it looks and breaking other people's things." She looked down, urging Jasper and Horace back inside with her calf. "And I'm not..." Lis raised her head again.
"I haven't snapped." In a small, detached part of her brain, Carrie noted how cool her voice was, wondered almost curiously if she could snap, what could push her to that. "If that's what you're asking." She started over to the tarp, beginning to lift the corners in to make an awkward bundle that she could carry over and empty into the trash can. "And Uncle Matt's the one who gave me the glasses." Unable to help the dark chuckle low in her throat, she shrugged. "If you were wondering."
Lis cleared her throat softly behind her. "Hadn't yet, but okay." Coming out and shutting the door behind her so the dogs couldn't follow, she stuck both hands in her pockets, watching silently for a moment before speaking again. "Qui a fait ma sœur en colère?"
"Don't worry about it." She knew it was curt, knew it was too dismissive for her own sister, especially when it was Lis, but the cold, lead ball in her chest was seeping into her bones, and she just didn't care. "Nothing. Just..." She paused, smile dark and sharp. "Blowing off steam, was all."