The Afterboom

[Carrie Martin]

[]

Being betrayed and lied to was becoming a pattern for Caroline Martin. Her father had lied when he told her he would see her in the morning, and now this? Something along the same lines, of course. A de ja vou, if you will. There was a man, a married man, and a whore. A wench who seduced the man into doing her bidding, into her bed. A siren. In Carrie's earlier years, this had been Giselle, or "Little Miss New Boobs" as her mother had called her. The blonde bimbo who had asked her father to leave his family. Who had, in turn, destroyed the life Carrie had lived in. It was pure proof that money couldn't buy someone love. Now? It was Aimee Kensignton.

Certainly, things were a bit different now. Sean Andrews wasn't in any sort of relationship with Carrie, and she certainly didn't care if Sean's personal life crumbled. But Aimee was still the other woman. Aimee knew right from wrong. Aimee knew about Carrie's past, about the deception of her father. Aimee knew how Carrie felt about cheaters. Yes, this all hurt. But what hurt more was the secrets that Aimee had kept. All the times Carrie had asked what was going on, the faint replies of "nothing" eachoed through her head, until Aimee seemed to believe them to be true. Carrie hadn't, of course. But she had trusted her friend enough to not push the subject, figuring she would come around eventually. She had never expected to find out this way, and she was fairly sure Aimee hadn't either.

But that didn't change the fact that she knew. She knew about Sean and Aimee's affair. But did Cassandra? The question had plagued her mind since last week, when she had walked in on the two kissing. Should she tell her? She had to wonder what her own mother would have done if she had known before her father left. Would she leave him? Would she have tried to stop him, seen a counselor? Or would he have left anyway? Was it inevitable? Her morals told her, screamed at her, to go to Cassandra instantly. But the loyalty she still had to her friend, if that's what they still were, told her not to get involved. Her better judgement told her it was too late for that. For days now, she had called Cassandra, only to hang up when she answered.

And now? She was at the bar. The Bar had once been a place of fond memories, parties, and good times. But in the past days, it had been her safe haven. Aimee dared not enter the place that she and Carrie had once called their own after her lies. So it was the only place she could think to escape running into her, avoiding the awkward. Plus, there was alcohol. Sam had cut her off three times this week, and was limiting her to beer now, instead of hard liquor. And while she appreciated Sam's concern, she was also annoyed by it.

"Another round, Sam."

"Carrie, I don't think-"

She leaned forward on the Bar, until she was inches from Sam's face. She was drunk. She had been for the past several days. She had a new routine. Go to work, go to the bar, sober up, and then go to work again. She hadn't been home in a few days, and instead, slept on her breaks in a supply room. She threw herself into her work, and didn't stop until she was told to do so, usually by Ben. He had noticed the change in her. She was no longer bubbly, fun, happy. Well, not really. She still smiled, but it was all a mirage. Ben had told asked her what was wrong, as had Darcy, Lynne, Lucille, anyone she came in contact with. But she just shook her head and told them she was fine, flashing them the false smile and getting back to her clip board. She was quite possibly the most productive person at the hospital at the moment.

The only thing that she savored more than the hospital, was the alcohol. And she wouldn't let Sam take the one of the few comforts she could find away.

"Please, Sam?"

He reluctantly handed her another beer, and she jumped off the ar stool, making her way toward the dancefloor. Ben had left a few hours earlier, asking what time she'd be home. He had sent Darcy over to check on her, and he had left less than an hour ago. Now she was pretty much alone, expect for a few hallow dance partners who still lingered on the floor, hoping that Carrie would give them the time of day. They were lucky. She swayed her hips a bit, before taking another swig. Men flocked to her like usual, and she allowed herself to get lost in a sea of faces and body parts, all wanting a piece of her. But she had nothing left to give.

Eventually, she shrugged her way out of the floor, pushing against people until she stood at the back of the room, gripping a table for support. Her world was spinning. Sky rocketing out of control. And Aimee wasn't around to keep her grounded, keep her sane.

[Ben Jones]

Ben had been following Carrie. They had all felt it, since that first night that he had found Aimee asleep on the couch, passed out. He had hardly been soothed by Tatum MacNamara’s excuse, that Aimee had just had too much to drink, but had allowed himself to work and then go home. But upon entering his flat again, he knew that Tatum was wrong. There was something missing, there was something horribly wrong and twisted. There had been no talk or laughter in their house for nearly a week. In fact, there had been no one in their house for nearly a week, save for Ben and Darcy, who hardly interacted due to the awkward blanket of silence that had fallen. It was as if someone had died. Ben and Darcy spoke quietly, and infrequently, never really voicing their concerns. Ben had asked where everyone was, once, but it had seemed too loud and out of place. Darcy had murmured that he hoped nothing was seriously wrong, but it seemed rude and obvious that something was wrong.

Who had done it? What had they done? Ben seemed to be one of the only ones who could function anymore at work, even with these questions racing around. He had been more taught, stricter, and had nearly fired Dollface for dropping something in front of him and then cursing quietly. He had grabbed another Trainee by the neck of his robes and threatened to throw him bodily from the Hospital if he ever looked at Ben “that way” again. Despite his new and improved way of work, he was still able to save lives, in a clipped, business-like way. He had lost a little bit of urgency for the patient’s life on an emotional level, but worked just as hard because it was his job. Just his job.

Outside of work, the only person he felt he could talk to about his frustration and confusion was Lucy. After he had skipped his afternoon shift to talk to her, he had broken down the barrier and invited her to coffee a couple times. He discussed with her what could have possibly happened, and why his roommates weren’t telling him. It was obviously affecting them, so why shouldn’t he know? But he couldn’t force it out of them: whenever he saw Carrie, she seemed so…unCarrie-ish that he didn’t have the heart to force it out of her, and he hadn’t seen hide nor tail of Aimee in days. Carrie had been moping around the Hospital, doing her job, but she hadn’t been at home. She had only stopped working when Ben had told her too, and whenever he asked what was wrong, she had said “Nothing.”

Because of this, he had resorted to tracking her. He had put Darcy, Lucy, and a few other random Hospitalites up to the job as well, and they had been routinely checking up on her and trying to wheedle information out of her, but softly. There was a pattern to when she ran into them, but Ben knew that she was in too much of a haze to notice it. Lucy had told him where she had been sleeping, Damita had reported scarce eating, and he and Darcy had spent ever other hour of the night until she left The Bar poking their heads in, looking around.

Their research had revealed a few things to Ben about Carrie. Things he wished he didn’t know. Firstly, Carrie was an alcoholic. That much was obvious, now that she was spending all her time outside of work at The Bar, drinking her body weight in alcohol. Ben had seen people depend on alcohol, and what it did to different people. You would never be able to tear him away from the bottle, and he was sure Carrie would be the same way, but as soon as he could corner her, he was sending her out of work to work out her issues. Secondly, Carrie was depressed and emotionally unbalanced. She couldn’t handle whatever it was that had put her in over her head, and she was now fighting to stay awake all the time. Lucy had even reported restless sleeping, another sign of depression.

So he had been stalking her, as any good friend would. He was outraged that he had no idea what was going on, he was scared that Carrie was falling so far and that Aimee had simply disappeared, and he was sympathetic, a combination that spelled the word “Shadow.” She had hardly been out of his sight, with his coworkers as his eyes and ears.

Now, it was his turn to return to The Bar. He could hear Darcy reenter the flat a few feet away, and he arose from his restless slumber on the couch. He slowly opened his eyes and nodded at Darcy, and gradually sat up, shifting the blankets they had thrown down.

“So?” he asked quietly, at the same time Darcy had shrugged. “Well did you talk to her?” A little. But still, nothing. Ben’s frustration rose again, and he nodded. He got up and walked past Darcy to the door, briefly putting a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, his head bowed. As he laced his shoes, he looked over at Darcy and resolved, out loud, that this time he was going to find out what the fuck was up. He nodded darkly to Darcy, and left. “Meet me in an hour.”

His rivalry with Darcy had melted away. He wasn’t sure if Darcy was as freaked out as he was about the whole thing. Ben was honestly rethinking Carrie on a romantic level. Would he be able to handle this? He had always known she was crazy, but in a good way. It only made sense, though, that she was equally unhinged in a bad way. Now all he cared about was that his friend lived through the night.

The Bar was in full swing. It was a Friday night, so of course it was. People were dancing, drinking, doing the usual Bar-ish things. At the counter, ordering another drink, was Carrie. Sam handed her one, and Ben felt a fresh flush of anger. He had even gotten Sam in on it, ordering him to cut Carrie down on the whole alcohol thing, but he was failing miserably in the face of a pretty girl. Ben waited until Carrie was off and on her way to approach the barman himself. He sat down in the same place Carrie had been moments ago, and beckoned the bartender over to him. He reached over and grabbed Sam’s shirt, pulling him towards him.

“You lousy son of a bitch,” he grumbled, jerking Sam a little. “Can you see? If you feed her one more fucking drink I’ll put your lights out, you miserable piece of fuck. Unless I or Darcy am here with her, nothing. Ever. I don’t care if she promises to fuck you senseless.”

He was sure Sam was about to kick him out of The Bar, which was why Ben let him go, leaving a fifty pound note with Sam. Muggle money wasn’t much compared to Wizarding currency, so dropping fifty pounds wasn’t a terribly big deal. Not something he should do every day, but it wouldn’t hurt in this situation. When he turned around to scan the bar for Carrie, she wasn’t there. Fuck, he thought, launching his way into the throng of people. He fought his way through, until, finally, he saw Carrie break free form the thicket of bodies and stumble to a table. She looked as if she was about to vomit. Ben came up behind her, putting one hand on her stomach and the other on her arm, as if he was about to wrestle her.

“Carrie, shh, it’s Ben.” As if he should have to tell her who it was. It was a sorry day when he had to introduce himself. Gone were the days when he could greet her with, “Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?” Now his rhapsody was somewhat less Bohemian. Maybe a little more “Mama, just killed a man.” Hopefully he wasn’t putting a gun against her head, but he had felt as if some trigger was about to be pulled at any minute for the past week. I don’t want to die. Sometimes I wish as if I had never been born at all…

[Hahahahaha I’m sick, bored, and I’ve been listening to too much Bohemian Rhaspody.
Hopefully that clears up some of that
*Cough*]

[Carrie Martin]

Carrie was one of those people who would refuse to let you see her cry. She waited until she was in the shower, or alone in the flat, or somewhere, anywhere, where prying eyes couldn't see. She refused to cry profously over things she couldn't change, as well. After her father's dramatic disappearence, she had cried herself dry. For a while, she felt she had no tears left. Seeing Aimee and Sean had proved her wrong. Those first moments she had stowed away in the hospital stairwell, pressing her palms to her eyes to try to stop the tears that were inevitable. Tears for her father, who was never there. Tears for Cassandra, who was so oblivious. Tears for Aimee, for being so niave. But mostly tears for herself. For not seeing. For not knowing. For not having a best friend. It was an outright pitty party.

So when she felt Ben slip his comfortable, Carrie-worn-in, body around hers, she straightened up a bit, but also eased into him, following her normal routine. Of course, Ben wasn't blind. She noticed that he noticed the bottle she had. She knew that he knew something was up, and she knew that he didn't believe her pretenses for one second. But she put on a show anyway.

"Ben!"

She lightened her voice, wheeling around to face him, taking another swig of her drink. He looked tired. Exhausted, actually. And worried. And actually, very angry. She hated angery Ben, especially when she knew she was disappointing him, like she was know. She should have snapped out of it, told him everything, and asked him to help her. But she didn't. Instead, she swayed her hips to the music, determined to dance off the stale air between them, dance off his questions and concerns. She grabbed his waist, trying to forced him into her rhythm, but he wouldn't budge. She pouted ferociously, twirling around him, wrapped her arms around his neck, being evil, to say the least. But his face just hardened, underlying with concern. He wouldn't move.

Poor Ben. It was times like this that she knew he was too good for her. That she would hurt him if they were together. She was too wild, too crazy, too...Carrie for him to handle. The look on his face should have been enough for her to stop, and ask him to take her home.

"You're not going to dance with me, Ben?"

This hurt her a little more than she would expect. Which is maybe why she did what she did next. She had just taken another sip of her drink, the very last of it, and set the bottle down, when the look on his face just made her heart cave. With that, her body gave out, utter exhaustion, emotional, physical, mental, kicking in. She had been practically leaning on him before, but now her body slumped into him, crumbling a bit in defeat. Of course Ben caught her as she fell, his face softening, and he pushed her hair back out of her eyes. It was just a momentary spell of anguish, where her legs collapsed beneath her, but it was all it took. Carrie was fragile, broken goods. And no amount of alcohol would put her back together. She refused to accept that answer.

"Ben...I-I'm so sorry. Ben. I-I'm fine. I just need another drink, is all. Ben. Ben. Ben."

Saying his name made her feel a bit better, like she wouldn't lose him. Her heart cried out for him to take her home, kicking and screaming, and wrap his arms around her until she fell asleep, curled up next to him in a ball. Part of her hated her new found dependence on alcohol. But the other part knew it was the only thing that took off the layers and made things hurt less. The only thing that let her forget.

[[short. so sorry]]

[Eleanor Jansen]

[[I can just see Aimee coming in and yelling at her.
'For fucks sake Carrie, not everything is about you!'
Lol.

[Carrie Martin]

-snicks-
and to that response, Aimee shall get a general
"Fuck you" comeback, along with an "atleast I know the difference between right an wrong, you whore."
-cackles-
and poor Ben, all wrapped up in between

[Aimee Kensington]

Oh c'moooooon. She is so asking for it.
-Laughs-
-Shakes fist-

Naw. You know I love you though Molly.

[Ben Jones]

Do it! do it! Do it PLEASE!!!
It's about to be a what?
GIRLFIGHT!
Pleasepleaseplease Emmy I will love you forever.

In the middle of the dance floor now they're preparing to scrap!
Theyre takin' out their scrunchies and they're pullin' off their press-onssssssssss
The one on the right is the girlfrienddddddd
And the one on the left is the other womaaaaaaaaaaan

See it's about you go go go!

pleasseesaesliawuejroqwiefhsas

[Ben Jones]

Ben had lived with Carrie for years. Carrie knew him better than anyone–better than Darcy, even. He often felt bad that he and Darcy were losing each other, but they couldn’t help it, Carrie was like a drug. She was loyal but unreliable, she was fun but insane. Carrie was beautiful and intoxicating and everything that a drug should be. No one could get enough of Carrie. Recently, however, he hardly ever had a chance to see Carrie at all. He thought he knew her so well. But the thing that struck him most about seeing her there, fighting tears, was that he had never seen her cry. He felt his heart lurch when he saw how unhinged she was. She wasn’t just tired, like he had seen her in the hospital. She seemed to be handing by a thread, falling apart at the seams. He wanted to grab her and hold her pieces together, but another part of him didn’t want to touch her for fear she’d fall apart, or because she was contagious.

“Ben!”

Facing him was terrible, throwing all these flaws into clear view. Whatever had happened to Carrie was a crime, and Ben felt fear, anger, and sympathy all boiling in his stomach, acrid like bile. He couldn’t believe she was trying to trick him. He was frozen for a moment, watching her attempt her usual manor, dancing around him, touching him, making him stiffer every moment. The way she was moving was, in theory, Carrie-like. But someone like Ben, who knew her inside and out, and knew that she was not acting normal. He put his hand on the bottle, trying to make it seem like he was only trying to touch her hand. He couldn’t smile, he couldn’t speak.

She raised the bottle to her lips, and Ben let his hand drop to his side. Carefully, as if it was her suicide note that she was placing tenderly on her bed, she set her beer–her last beer–down on the table, and before he knew it, she crumpled like a napkin. There was a beautiful, poignant grace to the way she moved, like a ballet dancer conveying sadness. It was heartbreaking and shocking.

With the same ease, the feeling of a pillow being dropped, Ben caught Carrie in his arms before she could hit the ground. She felt lighter than he had remembered, and for a moment, all his anger, all his frustration, had melted away. He was holding her as if she had died, and yet it felt no different, no more awkward than when they kissed. It was as if this side of Carrie was just as much a part of her as her giddy side, and Ben had always known it. But he would have never thought she would be this way. He would have always thought of her as happy, crazy Carrie, unless someone had asked him, straight out, “How do you think she would act if she was about to have a nervous breakdown?” He could have guessed this, put his finger on the pulse of her problems and felt the beat.

She was saying his name, over and over, as if it would change everything, as if he would change everything. If Ben was in her position, he would be throwing things, secluding himself, throwing himself into something else demanding. Not work. He would quit work. He would find another job. Or he would go to work, head down, like Carrie had been, and he would lash out at anyone and everyone. He had been that way before, when he was seventeen and he had left Lucy.

The way the had melted together would have made Ben guess that they would never be pried apart, that he had fixed her. But if anything could unglue them, it was alcohol. He shook his head, slowly at first, then faster, sinking down to the floor and taking her with him, pulling her into his lap. He wanted to throw the bottle, to break it against a wall, to be kicked out of The Bar forever, so he could forget the ground he had sat on when Carrie broke in his arms. He wanted her to trust him, to let him take her home and have her fall asleep in his arms. He wanted to help her. He wanted to put her back together.

“No. No no no no no. Never. Never, ever again, okay? Not for a while. Not for tonight. Not for now.”

Ben tried to step back, tried to cover up the fact that he had told her he was cutting her off, forever. He tried to make it seem like it was just for now, and when she was feeling better, she would be able to go back to how things used to be. If he told her everything now, she might try to fight him on it, and that wasn’t what she needed and what he needed. He wanted to help her, to get her back to how she had been, but what if he couldn’t wind her up? What if she needed help from someplace with white walls and other people with her problem? Ben was scared for her, scared of her, scared with her. How could he help her if he was almost too scared to touch her?

“Please tell me what’s wrong, Sweetheart.”

He whispered, brushing her hair away from her face. This was how he would treat his daughter when she had broken up with her first boyfriend. This was how he would calm her, how he would soothe her, how he would try to make everything better. He would hug her, tell her everything was going to be okay, and she would feel better in the morning. She would always be his, and he loved her.

[Now it's Em's turn.
Hahahahahhahahahahahahahaha
You don't even have a choice anymore.]

[Hadley James]

-Grins-
You're such a softie Jase. I'll try star a post but I'm hella slow...typing one handed.
Yeah.

[Ben Jones]

There is just so much you do not know about me, Emily Louise.
I am a caring, sensible man, I really am. But, in the words of Friends, I can rattle a headboard like a sailor on leave!
But how did you even break your fucking hand?
that's such a pussy injury, I'm sorry. Yesterday my friend popped her toes out of her foot or like dislocated them or whatever in a soccer game, and then took her PK at the end of the game
What were you doing when you fucking broke a baby bird bone in your hand, Loser?