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She's gonna throw up, or hurt herself, or both. Carrie clenches her teeth tight, and burrows herself into her jacket, flipping the lapels up high. She throws open the door to her apartment and slams it shut, the only good news is that her parents aren't home.
She stomps into her room and shuts the door, throwing her bag down. Suddenly shaking hard, she pants, out of breath. She grabs the collar of her shirt, biting it hard, tugging at the fabric and worrying it between her teeth.
Carrie slowly pulls her boots off, then collapses into bed. Tears already falling from her eyes, she heaves, tugging the blankets over herself and curling up tight. She lays there sobbing, breathing fast, choking on nothing. She can't breathe right, she feels faint, God, what is wrong with her? Nothing even happened!
She rips a hole in her T-shirt by accident. She just bites down on the fabric harder. Briefly, she pulls her arm out and swipes it across the bed until she finds a little stuffed cat. She pulls it close to her chest, hugging it hard. She pulls off her glasses and lets them fall to the floor with a soft thump. Still sobbing, still breathing hard, she grasps at her hair and pulls. She whines and groans, desperate, angry noises pushed out through gritted teeth.
She writhes on the bed, curling and uncurling, twisting from side to side. One hand fisted in her hair, tugging until the pain makes her stop, then pulling again. She balls more of her shirt into her mouth, soaking it thoroughly with saliva. Her tongue lays numb and dry in her mouth as her teeth ferociously gnaw at the coarse fabric. A faint whine spills out as Carrie lets go of the cat in favour of smacking her fist against her forehead.
She feels aggressively dizzy, if she weren't already laying down, she would've fallen over.
What is wrong!? What is wrong!? She growls low in her throat, turning her face to scream into the pillow. Her throat is hoarse and aching, but she doesn't stop until she is entirely out of breath. Carrie flips weakly to her side, panting for air. She's so tired, so, so tired...
Fatigue drags at her guts, the rage wearing itself out until she lays limply on her bed. A chill creeps up her arm and she tugs the blanket over herself, laying still.
She falls asleep quickly, and when she wakes it's past sunset. Carrie turns to look at her ceiling, feeling utterly drained. Then she tugs the blanket off and rolls out of bed. She bends to pick up the plush cat--it had fallen off while she was sleeping--and places it back on the bed. She chugs down the last of the water on her nightstand and kicks her boots under the bed.
Then, she opens the door to her closet and pulls out the costume pooling at the bottom. She squints at her watch. 6:30.
Carrie sits on the floor, absently worrying the fabric of her cape between two fingers. She stares off into space until her comm. unit crackles to life.
“Robin.” A deep voice hisses through the device, “Roof of the Smith Accounting Offices. Magnolia Blvd. and 63rd. 40 minutes.” The static dies.
Limply, she lifts the comm. to her mouth.
“Yes, sir.” She says.