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made the skyline look like crooked teeth
Oct. 31st, 2013 11:26 pmShe's not in shock, not really. At least, Carla Jean doesn't think that's the case, no matter how normal she knows it's supposed to be after a situation like this. Shooting and killing a man doesn't come without its consequences, after all, even when it's entirely necessary, even when there's a bizarre sort of satisfaction in it. Still, she thinks she can deal with seeing Chigurh's lifeless body when she closes her eyes and knowing that she's the one responsible for that, and with the accompanying mess of emotions (she'd thought it would feel better than this). It's the whole sequence of events that has her thrown for a loop. There might be something strangely appropriate about showing up in an entirely different place after having killed Chigurh, just as she showed up somewhere new after he'd killed her, but it's a hell of a lot to process at once. Months of worrying she might be losing her mind have finally come to an end, a sensation that would be enough to leave her stunned in its own right. Being in a place that's totally unfamiliar on top of that just makes it all the more difficult.
The same could have been said of the island, of course, but that wasn't like this. Even if its small community was still dissimilar to the Texas towns where she spent her whole life, it was quiet in a way she was accustomed to, at least most of the time. A city like this is foreign territory, nothing like she's ever seen in person before and a hell of a lot more daunting than she'd care to admit. At least she isn't on her own here, though. Having been found by Kate was more relieving than she'd care to admit, and hearing from her that there are others who remember being on the island was, too. It doesn't make trying to find her footing here any less strange, though.
She'll have to, at some point, go out and get clothes, groceries, all the other essentials like that; she'll have to find herself a job, too, though having some money in the meantime is reassuring. For now, though, she has more immediate concerns. Finding a corner store to duck into for a pack of cigarettes isn't too difficult, at least, even if the price is boggling enough that she nearly reconsiders. A lot's changed from 1980 to now, it seems, in ways that are a lot clearer here than they were on the island. She gives in, though, already taking one out of the pack to light on her way out the door, thinking as she does about how much Llewelyn would hate it. He never was a fan of the habit; she never cared, and she especially doesn't now.
Rather than going to the apartment that she knows is supposed to be waiting for her, she instead heads back out to the beach after. It's a far cry from the one she just lived near, but she thinks she likes that a little better. If nothing else, she thinks the air might help her clear her head, anyway. Instead of the quiet she'd been expecting, though, she finds a familiar face when she gets out there, and thinks that might just be better. "Hey, Harley."
The same could have been said of the island, of course, but that wasn't like this. Even if its small community was still dissimilar to the Texas towns where she spent her whole life, it was quiet in a way she was accustomed to, at least most of the time. A city like this is foreign territory, nothing like she's ever seen in person before and a hell of a lot more daunting than she'd care to admit. At least she isn't on her own here, though. Having been found by Kate was more relieving than she'd care to admit, and hearing from her that there are others who remember being on the island was, too. It doesn't make trying to find her footing here any less strange, though.
She'll have to, at some point, go out and get clothes, groceries, all the other essentials like that; she'll have to find herself a job, too, though having some money in the meantime is reassuring. For now, though, she has more immediate concerns. Finding a corner store to duck into for a pack of cigarettes isn't too difficult, at least, even if the price is boggling enough that she nearly reconsiders. A lot's changed from 1980 to now, it seems, in ways that are a lot clearer here than they were on the island. She gives in, though, already taking one out of the pack to light on her way out the door, thinking as she does about how much Llewelyn would hate it. He never was a fan of the habit; she never cared, and she especially doesn't now.
Rather than going to the apartment that she knows is supposed to be waiting for her, she instead heads back out to the beach after. It's a far cry from the one she just lived near, but she thinks she likes that a little better. If nothing else, she thinks the air might help her clear her head, anyway. Instead of the quiet she'd been expecting, though, she finds a familiar face when she gets out there, and thinks that might just be better. "Hey, Harley."
sooner or later, God'll cut you down
Oct. 31st, 2013 09:29 pmShe knows he's there when he sets foot through the doorway. He isn't in her line of sight yet, he doesn't make a sound, but she can feel it anyway, the air thick with tension and something more than that, a sense of foreboding stronger than any of the fear she's felt over the past few months. It's been hell, Carla Jean will readily admit to that, never knowing when she'll spot a familiar figure in her peripheral vision or hear the click of a gun's safety in the dark, an echo of that goddamn sinister voice in her head. Up until now, it's all been taunts. She's learned how to deal with it, to balance potential danger with the visions that she knows people have been having. She's learned properly how to shoot a gun, keeps it on her at all times, while having the sense not to draw it just because she's spooked (which is good, because she's that more often than not). All her life, she's been a sensible girl, pragmatic. Just having that turned on its head, no longer knowing if or when she can trust her own senses, would be enough to drive her crazy, but these circumstances make it that much worse. This son of a bitch took everything from her once before, including her own life. Even if he's just been biding his time, she's had no intention of letting him do the same again.
If only she had a head for these things like Llewelyn did, she thinks now, standing just inside the door frame, taking a moment to try to catch her breath. Her husband, God rest his soul, might have been dumb enough to get himself into all that trouble in the first place, but he would have had more of a sense for what to expect from this, how best to handle herself. She could go in shooting, but she's not sure that would do any good. If he is here, if her gut is right about this, then waiting to kill her on sight wouldn't be his style. The sick bastard would never leave it that simple.
Besides, though she has no way of knowing what he might have seen here, the last time they encountered each other, she was a mess, newly widowed, having just buried her grandmother, still wearing the dress from the funeral, shaken and emotional and barely able to make sense of what had happened at all. She knows more now. Though she's had just as much to worry about, this time, it's hardened her, left her sure of what she has to do and how. It means she'll have the element of surprise on her side. The girl he saw in her childhood bedroom that day wouldn't have been carrying a loaded pistol, and wouldn't have used it, either. Now, she won't have to hesitate.
When she pushes open the bedroom door and walks inside, he's sitting there, just like she predicted, just like before. The sight of him, half-hidden in shadow, still makes her breath catch in her chest, but she keeps her expression even, not reaching for the gun that's obscured by her sweater, though she's distinctly aware of its presence now, mentally going over everything Sean taught her about it. He's armed, too, a shotgun pointed at her just like before, but she keeps her gaze on his face rather than the barrel. If he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, he won't without warning, and she'll have him gone before then.
"Hello, Mrs. Moss," he says, voice quiet.
"Hello, Mr. Chigurh," she returns. There's little inflection in her voice, but he smiles, the look of it chilling. In spite of that, she finds it almost satisfying. Terrified or not, she has the upper hand here, and even the simplest way she can surprise him goes a long damn way.
"You've learned a few things since I saw you last."
She shrugs. "Dyin'll do that to a girl."
"Yes," he agrees, though it's not something he's had any experience with. All this time, he's seemed immortal, left a trail of bodies in his wake that she's sure is even longer than she knows about. All of that, and now he's about to die at the hands of a nineteen year old girl. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
"To finish what you started, I reckon," she replies. Sure of herself as she might be, there's a flicker of fear in her wide eyes at that. Standing in a room with someone who wishes her dead isn't exactly comforting.
"Yes," he says again. If she didn't know better, she'd think he sounded almost sorry. "You understand."
"I do," she confirms. Now, she thinks. She doesn't want to put it off any longer. She doesn't want to take any chances, either. "I understand that you're the reason my husband died, and a whole lot of others besides. I understand that it's not about the money anymore, since I never had that in the first place. I understand that, somehow, you think you're right in doin' all this."
Chigurh blinks once, twice, clearly confused, but with a trace of amusement alongside it. He's humoring her, she thinks, letting her say her piece, because he thinks he knows how this is going to end: like it did before, with her dead on her bedroom floor. He doesn't have a clue what's coming for him.
"You know, I thought about havin' a coin on hand when you finally found me," she continues, exhaling what might be a laugh under any other circumstances. "Tryin' to get you to call it, see how you like it. But then I realized that, no matter how it went, I was gonna do the same thing."
Quickly, she pulls the gun out of the waist of her jeans, leveling it at him, then adds without a pause, not giving him time to react, "This is for Llewelyn."
The first shot hits him square in the chest. He groans with it, letting go of his shotgun to press his palm over the wound, and stares up at her in clear confusion. She doesn't smile. She just fires again — the next shot goes through the hand in question — and then again and again, with increasingly less precision, until the trigger clicks, the gun's chamber empty, and Chigurh's body slumps to the floor.
Or, at least, to what should be the floor. It isn't wood under her feet when she looks down, though, but sand, a cool breeze off the ocean blowing through her hair, and she doesn't know what in God's name happened to the hut, but she feels crazier now than she ever did catching glimpses of Chigurh in the shadows. He was clearly real after all. This seems far more improbable, only the hot metal of the gun she's still holding coming as any kind of a relief. The stretch of beach doesn't even look familiar, she thinks, though at least it's quiet, no one reacting to the body in front of her. Hands dropping to her sides, she draws in a deep breath. Where she is and whatever's happened, they can wait. She needs a minute to take in what's happened, to deal with the sight in front of her. It's not until she blinks that she realizes there are tears in her eyes, and she's still not sure what they're from — the belated panic that her chest is tight with, the grief she's never shaken, or just pure relief.
If only she had a head for these things like Llewelyn did, she thinks now, standing just inside the door frame, taking a moment to try to catch her breath. Her husband, God rest his soul, might have been dumb enough to get himself into all that trouble in the first place, but he would have had more of a sense for what to expect from this, how best to handle herself. She could go in shooting, but she's not sure that would do any good. If he is here, if her gut is right about this, then waiting to kill her on sight wouldn't be his style. The sick bastard would never leave it that simple.
Besides, though she has no way of knowing what he might have seen here, the last time they encountered each other, she was a mess, newly widowed, having just buried her grandmother, still wearing the dress from the funeral, shaken and emotional and barely able to make sense of what had happened at all. She knows more now. Though she's had just as much to worry about, this time, it's hardened her, left her sure of what she has to do and how. It means she'll have the element of surprise on her side. The girl he saw in her childhood bedroom that day wouldn't have been carrying a loaded pistol, and wouldn't have used it, either. Now, she won't have to hesitate.
When she pushes open the bedroom door and walks inside, he's sitting there, just like she predicted, just like before. The sight of him, half-hidden in shadow, still makes her breath catch in her chest, but she keeps her expression even, not reaching for the gun that's obscured by her sweater, though she's distinctly aware of its presence now, mentally going over everything Sean taught her about it. He's armed, too, a shotgun pointed at her just like before, but she keeps her gaze on his face rather than the barrel. If he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, he won't without warning, and she'll have him gone before then.
"Hello, Mrs. Moss," he says, voice quiet.
"Hello, Mr. Chigurh," she returns. There's little inflection in her voice, but he smiles, the look of it chilling. In spite of that, she finds it almost satisfying. Terrified or not, she has the upper hand here, and even the simplest way she can surprise him goes a long damn way.
"You've learned a few things since I saw you last."
She shrugs. "Dyin'll do that to a girl."
"Yes," he agrees, though it's not something he's had any experience with. All this time, he's seemed immortal, left a trail of bodies in his wake that she's sure is even longer than she knows about. All of that, and now he's about to die at the hands of a nineteen year old girl. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"
"To finish what you started, I reckon," she replies. Sure of herself as she might be, there's a flicker of fear in her wide eyes at that. Standing in a room with someone who wishes her dead isn't exactly comforting.
"Yes," he says again. If she didn't know better, she'd think he sounded almost sorry. "You understand."
"I do," she confirms. Now, she thinks. She doesn't want to put it off any longer. She doesn't want to take any chances, either. "I understand that you're the reason my husband died, and a whole lot of others besides. I understand that it's not about the money anymore, since I never had that in the first place. I understand that, somehow, you think you're right in doin' all this."
Chigurh blinks once, twice, clearly confused, but with a trace of amusement alongside it. He's humoring her, she thinks, letting her say her piece, because he thinks he knows how this is going to end: like it did before, with her dead on her bedroom floor. He doesn't have a clue what's coming for him.
"You know, I thought about havin' a coin on hand when you finally found me," she continues, exhaling what might be a laugh under any other circumstances. "Tryin' to get you to call it, see how you like it. But then I realized that, no matter how it went, I was gonna do the same thing."
Quickly, she pulls the gun out of the waist of her jeans, leveling it at him, then adds without a pause, not giving him time to react, "This is for Llewelyn."
The first shot hits him square in the chest. He groans with it, letting go of his shotgun to press his palm over the wound, and stares up at her in clear confusion. She doesn't smile. She just fires again — the next shot goes through the hand in question — and then again and again, with increasingly less precision, until the trigger clicks, the gun's chamber empty, and Chigurh's body slumps to the floor.
Or, at least, to what should be the floor. It isn't wood under her feet when she looks down, though, but sand, a cool breeze off the ocean blowing through her hair, and she doesn't know what in God's name happened to the hut, but she feels crazier now than she ever did catching glimpses of Chigurh in the shadows. He was clearly real after all. This seems far more improbable, only the hot metal of the gun she's still holding coming as any kind of a relief. The stretch of beach doesn't even look familiar, she thinks, though at least it's quiet, no one reacting to the body in front of her. Hands dropping to her sides, she draws in a deep breath. Where she is and whatever's happened, they can wait. She needs a minute to take in what's happened, to deal with the sight in front of her. It's not until she blinks that she realizes there are tears in her eyes, and she's still not sure what they're from — the belated panic that her chest is tight with, the grief she's never shaken, or just pure relief.
(no subject)
Sep. 10th, 2012 01:53 pmUsually, it doesn't really mean anything, not seeing someone for several days, even here. Common as disappearances are (at least, as she's been told), more common is just carrying about one's life, and that doesn't always include time for just hanging out. Carla Jean wouldn't call herself especially busy, having only a couple of mornings cooking breakfast to worry about, but even so, there's hardly anyone she sees on a daily basis. She makes a point of seeing how people are doing, but not all the time. There's no sense in hovering, even if she's on edge more often than not these days, convinced every motion she catches out of the corners of her eyes, every rustle in the jungle and shadow behind her is Chigurh. Sometimes she could swear she even hears his voice, though he's never there when she turns around. Just because she might be losing her mind doesn't mean she needs to keep tabs on the people she knows every second of every day. They all have lives here, and she doesn't intend to let this get to her that badly. She'll keep going like normal.
That is, maybe, why she's more inclined to notice it when someone's absent longer than usual. Harley is easily her closest friend here, and though a few days isn't long enough for her to worry, it is enough to be conspicuous, enough to make her wonder if something's happened. Around here, just about anything is possible. She thinks, first, about just stopping by; on a whim, she heads to the kitchen to put together something to eat first, just in case. She spends a lot of time close to the Compound and the Winchester, and while it's possible she's just missed him, it doesn't seem too unlikely that he hasn't been here, either.
With everything boxed up in borrowed Tupperware containers, she walks to his hut, knocking on the door when she reaches it. "Harley, you in?" she calls. "It's Carla Jean."
That is, maybe, why she's more inclined to notice it when someone's absent longer than usual. Harley is easily her closest friend here, and though a few days isn't long enough for her to worry, it is enough to be conspicuous, enough to make her wonder if something's happened. Around here, just about anything is possible. She thinks, first, about just stopping by; on a whim, she heads to the kitchen to put together something to eat first, just in case. She spends a lot of time close to the Compound and the Winchester, and while it's possible she's just missed him, it doesn't seem too unlikely that he hasn't been here, either.
With everything boxed up in borrowed Tupperware containers, she walks to his hut, knocking on the door when she reaches it. "Harley, you in?" she calls. "It's Carla Jean."
(no subject)
Dec. 1st, 2011 02:44 am[Continued from here.]
Carla Jean falters only for a moment, swallowing hard as she glances down the road. When she's working blind, without the first idea of where it is she's supposed to be going, one direction seems as good as any other, but they might as well start off with a plan, do something a little more than wandering aimlessly, or at least not waste time being too indecisive about it. It's enough that he's offered to go with her at all without her keeping him out here longer than is necessary; she'd tell him that he doesn't have to go with her at all, except she thinks it might be better this way. They'll see each other through it. That way, they won't be on their own.
"This way, I think," she says with more certainty than she feels, gesturing in a direction she hasn't gone yet with her free hand, the one not at Harley's side. "And thanks. For... offerin' to go with me, and all."
Carla Jean falters only for a moment, swallowing hard as she glances down the road. When she's working blind, without the first idea of where it is she's supposed to be going, one direction seems as good as any other, but they might as well start off with a plan, do something a little more than wandering aimlessly, or at least not waste time being too indecisive about it. It's enough that he's offered to go with her at all without her keeping him out here longer than is necessary; she'd tell him that he doesn't have to go with her at all, except she thinks it might be better this way. They'll see each other through it. That way, they won't be on their own.
"This way, I think," she says with more certainty than she feels, gesturing in a direction she hasn't gone yet with her free hand, the one not at Harley's side. "And thanks. For... offerin' to go with me, and all."
(no subject)
Nov. 30th, 2011 03:43 am[Continued from here.]
"Well, someone told me, first," Carla Jean says, mouth pulling to one side. The truth of it is, she's grateful for having run into Sean, that she could find out from a person instead of something as impersonal as this, or having someone mention it in passing without knowing that she was unaware, but at a time like this, it's difficult to let that show. This isn't exactly a silver lining kind of situation. "I just wanted to see how much I could find out about it. Not exactly light readin' material."
"Well, someone told me, first," Carla Jean says, mouth pulling to one side. The truth of it is, she's grateful for having run into Sean, that she could find out from a person instead of something as impersonal as this, or having someone mention it in passing without knowing that she was unaware, but at a time like this, it's difficult to let that show. This isn't exactly a silver lining kind of situation. "I just wanted to see how much I could find out about it. Not exactly light readin' material."
(no subject)
Nov. 28th, 2011 01:58 amCarla Jean likes the kitchen best when the dinner rush has died down, when the flow of people is still steady but substantially less. Empty rooms are dangerous, but crowds, especially predominantly cheerful ones, don't make her feel especially at ease either, serving instead only to emphasize how crazy most of the people here have got to be. Being here this late means she'll be walking back to the hut she's acquired for herself — not officially, not wanting to attach her name to anything, leave any records that could result in her being found by the wrong people — in the dark, which is far from preferable, but if she loses either way, then she'll pick this one, staying in the fluorescent lights of the Compound for as long as possible. It's all she can do, really, when most days, she doubts the likelihood of her ever not needing to look over her shoulder wherever she goes, waiting for trouble at every turn.
Tonight, she's back by a wall, a mug of lukewarm coffee in her hands as she watches people come and go, most of them passing her right by. She's fine with that. She might not have any people left, either home or here, but she isn't much concerned with making friends either way. Even so, she lifts her chin in something like a greeting when she catches the eye of someone she doesn't know. There's no harm in it, and no real reason to do otherwise.
Tonight, she's back by a wall, a mug of lukewarm coffee in her hands as she watches people come and go, most of them passing her right by. She's fine with that. She might not have any people left, either home or here, but she isn't much concerned with making friends either way. Even so, she lifts her chin in something like a greeting when she catches the eye of someone she doesn't know. There's no harm in it, and no real reason to do otherwise.
