[narrative 1] like eating glass.
Polite, but she looks mild and bored. That's the first thing people say about her when her parents introduce her to their friends - or what they pretend to call friends. Nine times out of ten Carla looks like she would rather be ten million miles away, looks like she is ten million miles away.
Sometimes, when pieces of conversation do snag her brain, her eyes turn toward whoever's speaking and she chews the inside of her mouth, biting down on the skin there, so that her expression, when her lips are forced to twist, looks awkward and annoyed. She drums her fingers when she does this, too, as if waiting, expecting, and if her parents introduce her to anyone during these little moments, people won't say anything about her at all. They just smile, tight-lipped, and move on to the ice tea that's way too sweet because Carla's mother doesn't know how to be a wife.
A lot of this day-to-day she sometimes feels like she can't handle. Scratch that. A lot of this day-to-day she usually feels she doesn't want to handle. Or deal with. Or think about. It's days like those she almost goes for her father's cigarettes in the back of the last drawer in the kitchen, the one he obviously doesn't care she's been snooping around in.
But no, Carla, do you really wanna die of lung cancer? That's such a shitty way to go. So she doesn't get the cigarettes. She just does the dishes and everyone in the living room shuts up and doesn't say a word. It's all the exact same routine. The same thing everyday. The same program, the same people running the show. She brushes her teeth, she puts on clothes, she sits in school for however many hours and then? And then she puts up with Lo's retardation and whatever the hell else is going on and oh, thank Jesus Christ himself for Evie letting her press the button. That's the one thing in Gotham she's learned she can count on, the button and the other girls.
She has that bored expression on her face now, sitting at the kitchen table - something little better than a card table, the chair little better than a wicker basket - working on her homework, diligent and dedicated until her phone buzzes. It's one of the small luxuries she's afforded for her good behavior, her reward for not screwing up her life the way her parents likely have - not that she cares, it's just another fact of routine.
The phone itself is clunky and gray and really cheap, outdated - bland, maybe, but it vibrates with a point at least. Something different. Carla never changes the volume setting. She keeps it private, waiting for one of them to call her, shoving her work, half-finished or not, back into a bag. "Finally," she says, mildly, into the phone, just as she steps outside.
For all her mildness - so mild and bored but polite - Carla sure does like watching things in this city blow up.
Sometimes, when pieces of conversation do snag her brain, her eyes turn toward whoever's speaking and she chews the inside of her mouth, biting down on the skin there, so that her expression, when her lips are forced to twist, looks awkward and annoyed. She drums her fingers when she does this, too, as if waiting, expecting, and if her parents introduce her to anyone during these little moments, people won't say anything about her at all. They just smile, tight-lipped, and move on to the ice tea that's way too sweet because Carla's mother doesn't know how to be a wife.
A lot of this day-to-day she sometimes feels like she can't handle. Scratch that. A lot of this day-to-day she usually feels she doesn't want to handle. Or deal with. Or think about. It's days like those she almost goes for her father's cigarettes in the back of the last drawer in the kitchen, the one he obviously doesn't care she's been snooping around in.
But no, Carla, do you really wanna die of lung cancer? That's such a shitty way to go. So she doesn't get the cigarettes. She just does the dishes and everyone in the living room shuts up and doesn't say a word. It's all the exact same routine. The same thing everyday. The same program, the same people running the show. She brushes her teeth, she puts on clothes, she sits in school for however many hours and then? And then she puts up with Lo's retardation and whatever the hell else is going on and oh, thank Jesus Christ himself for Evie letting her press the button. That's the one thing in Gotham she's learned she can count on, the button and the other girls.
She has that bored expression on her face now, sitting at the kitchen table - something little better than a card table, the chair little better than a wicker basket - working on her homework, diligent and dedicated until her phone buzzes. It's one of the small luxuries she's afforded for her good behavior, her reward for not screwing up her life the way her parents likely have - not that she cares, it's just another fact of routine.
The phone itself is clunky and gray and really cheap, outdated - bland, maybe, but it vibrates with a point at least. Something different. Carla never changes the volume setting. She keeps it private, waiting for one of them to call her, shoving her work, half-finished or not, back into a bag. "Finally," she says, mildly, into the phone, just as she steps outside.
For all her mildness - so mild and bored but polite - Carla sure does like watching things in this city blow up.