There are no good Italian restaurants in the city.
Pietà, with her infinite wisdom from literally being imported from Italy, denounces each option that Augusta suggests whether it be from the pictures of the menu, the titles of the meals, and god forbid, the name of the restaurant.
“Il punto?” Pietà had gagged, placing a delicate hand on her chest as if she were a maiden suffering from consumption. “What a horrific name.”
Augusta had shrugged and continued scrolling, blasé as she continued to throw out places. “I dunno, it looks good to me. It’s just noodles with sauce. How authentic can it really get?”
“That’s it,” Pietà had burst out, making her napping cats jolt from their nap, agonized at the mutilation of her people’s food. “We’re going to the bistro again!”
Augusta’s stomach churned at the idea of more French food, but she didn’t protest. Pietà was already on edge from her cat Beppe (also imported from Italy) needing to go to the vet. Beppe was due for an overnight examination, but Augusta thinks he’s just constipated again.
Augusta could care less about pets, but a bitchy Pietà meant a miserable life.
So now she's trapped in a stuck-up French restaurant where the menu isn’t in English and no prices are listed. Pietà analyzes the menu, brows furrowed as she carefully decides what Augusta will eat.
“You should get the magret de canard,” Pietà says at long last. Her accent is tinged with her Italian upbringing. “I had it back when I was in France. Naturally, the states won’t compare to it but you can hardly go wrong with duck.”
“Is it still gonna be raw?” Augusta asks as she reapplies the paper casing to a straw. She’s going to blow it at Pietà again.
Augusta was forced into a stuffy pantsuit and had her hair yanked as Pietà combed it to the side with gel, so she’s going to be as much of a nuisance as she can.
“It’s cooked as it’s meant to be.”
“Raw, then,” Augusta clicks her tongue. “I’m gonna get salmonella?”
“If you do, I’ll sue the restaurant,” Pietà soothes. “Then we can move out of your flat into an even better one and — “
“And you should get your own place,” Augusta interrupts. “My flat can’t keep you and your three rats.”
“Don’t call them that,” Pietà scolds, eyebrow twitching. “They’re beautiful cats. Here, let me show you a picture of Donatello chewing on your toothbrush — “
“Donatello did what?” Augusta nearly shrieks. White hot fury bursts in her chest. It isn’t enough that her flat has been taken over by a psycho and her three cats. One of the cats needs to violate her hygiene too.
She must have done something wrong in her past life to deserve such abhorrent things. Or maybe it’s karma.
“Yes,” Pietà says cheerily, scrolling through her phone. “I went to the bathroom one morning at four and I saw him sitting on the sink, gnawing on the bristles. I think he likes the texture.”
“And you didn’t stop him?”
“I couldn’t. He was too cute. Here.”
Pietà leans over the table and shows the picture. It’s blurry, probably from Pietà’s shoulder shaking from laughter, but very clearly Augusta’s green toothbrush is in the gaping maw of a filthy, furry beast.
Her stomach sinks as nausea threatens to swallow her whole. She’s seen Donatello licking his butthole on multiple occasions, not to mention bloody paws when he manages to escape and bring back a dead bird. “How long has this been going on?”
“I’m not sure, but isn’t he adorable?” Pietà coos, switching to a video of Donatello performing the crime.
Augusta nearly hurls. “Get that out of my sight. I’m gonna skin Donatello next time I see him.”
“But then I’d have to skin you and neither of us wants that.”
“So you prefer a cat to me?”
“Are you feeling competitive over one? My, Augusta, I never thought I’d see the day,” Pietà titters. She tilts her head at a certain angle, creating a glare on her round glasses, making her look like a mad scientist.
Before Augusta can retort, a waitress manifests.
She’s a cute thing, barely out of high school, judging by the light in her eyes and glowing face. Her brown hair flows down her lower back, reminding Augusta of her ex before she made the stupid decision of cutting it.
“Are you ready to order or would you like more time?” The waitress asks, clicking her pen periodically, which hovers over a notepad. It's tilted downwards, showing her loopy handwriting.
“Now is good,” Augusta drawls. “Think you can give me the most expensive thing on the menu, hun?”
The waitress flushes, cheeks a blazing tomato red. She clicks her pen faster and opens her mouth to reply, but Pietà cuts in, voice sharp and eyes narrowed. “What she means is that she’d like the magret de canard. I’d like beef tartare and your oldest red wine.”
The waitress scribbles it down. “Would that be all?”
“Dessert,” Augusta says. “Do you have any recommendations? Preferably something as sweet as you.”
The waitress squeaks.
Pietà scolds Augusta. “You’re scaring the poor thing. Look at her, she’s about to burst. That’s sexual harassment.”
“How?”
“Because — “
The waitress interrupts. “I recommend profiterole, it’s commonly shared between people due to its size.”
“We’ll take it then,” Augusta says.
The waitress nods. She adds it to her notepad, but before she can turn to leave, Augusta asks: “What’s your name?”
“Marianne.”
Augusta allows a molasses-like smile to curve her lips, thick and sweet. It’s what made her ex fall for her. She never allowed her ex to recover from being so shallow. “Thanks, Marianne. Keep up the good work.”
“You too,” Marianna blurts. “Not that you work here, but I enjoy your music and — “
“I’ll reduce your tip if you insist on lollygagging,” Pietà says sharply.
Marianne scurries away like a terrified rabbit.
Augusta swallows down a whistle as she watches Marianne go. Her black slacks hug her ass well.
Pietà coughs, attempting to grab Augusta’s attention. When it fails, she reaches forward and digs her sharp, manicured nails into Augusta’s forearm. “You’re a scoundrel."
Augusta raises her eyebrows. Her smile dies at the reminder of Pietà’s existence. “And?”
Pietà sniffs. “You shouldn’t be giving other people attention.”
Augusta pries Pietà’s fingers off her forearm as if they’re leeches. But like leeches, they’re stubborn, so after a few attempts, Augusta concedes to the abrasion. “It doesn’t relate to you so what does it matter?”
“You’re mine,” Pietà insists, puffing her cheeks, which are now tomato red. She tightens her grip and there’s a thin quality to her voice. Augusta resigns herself to another one of Pietà’s tantrums. “You’re not anyone else's.”
Augusta rolls her eyes. “I like her body. That’s all there is to it.”
“She looks like your ex,” Pietà spits.
Augusta clicks her tongue. “As if I didn’t notice.”
“You’re going to fall in love with her,” Pietà continues. “Then you’ll be no fun anymore.”
Only the fact they’re in public prevents Augusta from raising her voice. “I’m not going to fall in love with her,” she hisses. “Dammit, Pietà, I have needs. I can’t fucking masturbate because you and your stupid rats never leave me alone. The least you can do is let me have this.”
Pietà, of course, misses the point entirely. She releases her claws from Augusta’s arm and places her hand over her heart. A childish smile crosses her lips. “This is the first time you’ve called me by my name.”
If Augusta had a heart, it would drop. Instead, a weight dips to her stomach. “Don’t — “
“This requires a celebration,” Pietà cheers. “I’m finally making progress. You, my best friend, will receive an excellent award.”
“I don’t want one.”
“How do you feel about — “
“I don’t want one,” Augusta sneers.
“Then I guess our trip to Cancún is canceled,” Pietà says, releasing an exaggerated sigh. “And to think I was excited to eat seafood by the beach, drink margaritas, and play mini golf.”
“Is there even mini golf in Mexico?”
“Don’t be rude,” Pietà scolds, wagging her finger. Augusta wants to bite it off. “It’s a resort. Of course, they’ll have mini golf. Anyway, you’ll have to settle for less.”
“You can’t dangle Cancun over me and take it away,” Augusta barks. “That’s fucked up.”
“So are you for flirting with someone in front of me,” Pietà huffs. “I guess we can’t have it all, can we?”
Augusta blows her straw at Pietà. The paper projectile lands over Pietà’s chest, over her heart. Pietà puffs her cheeks. “You are so immature. We’re at a bistro, not one of your disgusting fat food places.
“Don’t you mean ‘fast?’”
“I said what I said.”
They continue bickering until the food arrives. Augusta pokes at her slices of duck, which could use a bit more cooking in her opinion, while Pietà takes several photos of her meal, Augusta’s meal, then of Augusta herself.
“Stop,” Augusta says as she extends her arm, spreading her hand to conceal the stupid lens of the camera.
“No,” Pietà says as she continues to snap photos. “You need a manicure, you chewed your poor nails down to nubs. They're scraggly.”
Augusta’s eyebrow twitches. It’s only down to nubs because of stress. If Pietà weren’t in the picture, her nails would be fine. “You — “
“Enjoy your meal!” Marianna interrupts before scampering away.
That reminds them to eat. The magret de canard actually is good. Pietà, despite her infinite flaws, has a sophisticated palate. She is also obscenely picky.
“It could be cooked less,” she whines, flaying the edges and eating only the center.
“It’s literally raw. Do you want it still mooing?”
Pietà ignores her. She delicately swallows down the last of her center and wipes her mouth as if there were crumbs. “The profiterole will save it.”
As if summoned, the profiterole appears. It’s massive, cream curtained by the chocolate syrup oozing down the side.
Augusta quickly shovels down her food. “Don’t start without me. You always eat the best parts first.”
Pietà already has a spoonful in her mouth. She moans. “It’s so soft! Did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over your slow eating.”
Augusta shoves her half-finished plate to the side. “Fuck it, dessert first.”
She digs into the profiterole. Her eyes grow wide at first bite. “Holy shit.”
“I’ll find more goodies for you. We need to fix your palate. Beef jerky of all things….”
“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”
“Absolutely not.”
The profiterole disappears into their bellies. Pietà’s meal has been cut into smaller pieces to give off the impression that an attempt was made at eating it, but she still filches a few pieces of Augusta’s duck and complains. “It’s also too cooked.”
Augusta rolls her eyes.
Marianne returns with the check. Pietà hands over her card, but there’s a little something scribbled on the corner of the receipt.
Call me :), it says, accompanied by a series of numbers.
Augusta whistles, snatching it away from Pietà’s burning gaze and shoveling it into her pocket. Pietà narrows her eyes at her as they leave the bistro. “You’re not actually going to call that harlot, are you?”
“Why are you talking like you’re British? Stop it, it’s gross.”
“She’s gross. Have you seen her freckles? It’s as if mud was splattered on her face. Don’t even get me started on those clothes. They reek of the bargain store.”
“You’re ugly when you’re jealous,” Augusta snaps, temples throbbing from irritation.
That shuts Pietà up. In silence, they enter Pietà’s convertible. Augusta rests her head against the window and closes her eyes. She’s about to burst so she can’t feast on her customary jerky and because she’s so full, smoking is unappealing.
Pietà’s turns are as sharp as the crack of a whip. Per usual, she’s speeding. Augusta clutches her stomach so that she doesn’t spew all over herself.
They sneak by without being pulled over, but Augusta suspects that isn’t luck as much as it is Pietà bribing all the officers in the area to ignore her car. Her accusations were met with a snide “Corruption in America? Why would you think that?” so Augusta wisely dropped the topic.
It doesn’t affect her anyway.
They return to Augusta’s flat in one piece. Augusta kicks off her dress shoes and makes a beeline to her bed, curling up on the covers and clutching her stomach.
“You wouldn’t be in such pain if you weren’t such a glutton,” Pietà scolds, trapped in the living room from her two remaining cats meowing at her, demanding food. “But I find your large appetite so fascinating.”
“It was your driving,” Augusta groans. She wraps the pillow around her head and presses it against her ears to drown out the tinkering in the kitchen from Pietà heating the cat food she had cooked the previous day. “And the profiterole. Why was everything on the menu small except for that?”
“The French are also gluttons,” Pietà explains. Her voice drops to an obnoxious coo as she redirects her attention to her cats “Oh, you poor things are certainly hungry! But not hungry enough since I spy leftovers. Don’t worry, Beppe will be back. He’ll clean everything up.”
Laying still makes nausea waver. Augusta decides that her stomach ache was from the semi-raw duck and not from eating too much.
When her body recalibrates, Augusta fishes her phone out from her pocket alongside the receipt. Marianne’s number is still there, albeit smudged, and she’s typing up her first message when Pietà joins her in the bedroom.
“Are you talking to someone?” Pietà plucks the phone from Augusta’s hand and quickly scans the message. She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re messaging that little girl.”
“Give it back!” Augusta protests. “It’s none of your business.”
Pieta deletes the message, types something else, and flings the phone back to Augusta. “I made it better.”
Augusta fumes as she reads. She blocks Marianne, refusing to even imagine what that response would be. “I can’t even say this out loud. You’re such a bitch. What the hell is your problem?”
“I have no problem. I’m just looking out for you,” Pietà plops on Augusta’s bed. The angle of the fan sends the stench of Pietà’s sickly sweet perfume directly to Augusta. Augusta grimaces. “You don’t need a teenager to get the metaphorical tip of your dick wet.”
“I need alone time and you sure as hell aren’t providing that.”
“What you need,” Pietà says. “Is another woman of similar status.”
“It’s personal preference not to fuck other singers,” Augusta says. “I don’t want controversy.”
“No, not another singer. You need someone who has been at your side for quite a while and will remain at your side no matter what. Someone with the financial prowess to take care of you. Someone with the quick wit to handle your volatile episodes.”
Augusta’s face twists as she has bitten into a lemon. The foul aroma of Pietà’s perfume is at full throttle, dousing Augusta with more nausea. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
“What better person to soothe your sexual desires than me?” Pietà caresses Augusta’s tense shoulder as if her acrid touch will usher the stress to flee Augusta’s body.
Augusta shudders and shoves Pietà’s hand away. But it doesn’t relent, instead crawling up Augusta’s neck to carefully cup the side of Augusta’s sweaty face.
“Don’t touch me.”
“But touch is what you want,” Pietà croons. She traces Augusta’s chapped lower lip with her soft thumb, pressing down slightly to push blood away, leaving a gentle, pale imprint of her touch. “I have the videos. I know what you like. I can make you feel good.”
Augusta’s face is ghostly white. She knows of the videos. They’re what keep her shackled to Pietà after all, but she hadn’t known some contained explicit content. “There are more videos you haven’t shown me?”
“I didn’t consider you a voyeur, so I had no reason to show you that particular set. But your ex had set up a camera in the room before you had gotten her drunk and my, Augusta, aren’t you quite the character?”
Augusta’s lips curl into a sneer even as her heart jackrabbits. “Look who’s talking.”
“You were awfully cruel to her. I hope you’re not expecting me to accept the same treatment,” Pietà drawls.
Her hands drift downward.
Augusta twists onto her stomach so that Pietà can’t grab her chest. She wraps her arms around her torso, unable to help the infantile desire to hug herself, head spinning from Pietà’s perfume. She digs her nails into her arms, leaving deep crescent-shaped indentations, and squeezes until her knuckles are bone white.
“But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you and your unfulfilled needs,” Pietà continues. Her hand drifts upward to stroke Augusta’s hair, breaking through the gel to weave the long strands between her spidery fingers. “You can be an active participant or lay there like a dead fish. I believe it’s called being a ‘pillow princess.’”
“None,” Augusta manages to say through the thick weight in her throat. Her palms are clammy and she feels small, so small. As if belly up to a great beast. “I don’t want it.”
“Let me rephrase it: you either comply or I leak the videos.”
Augusta swallows. “I don’t have much of a choice then, do I?”
Pietà titters. “You always have a choice. It’s a matter of selecting the correct one.”
She rolls Augusta onto her back. Augusta’s hair fans against the pillow like a dreaded halo, messy from Pietà’s touch. The gel weighs against her like concrete. Augusta tightens her grip on herself and is gratified to realize her arms conceal her breasts.
“No need to be scared,” Pietà says, prying off Augusta’s fingers one by one. “No need to hurt yourself either.”
Pietà traces the marks on Augusta’s arm with her fingertips, her touch feather-light yet burning.
Augusta winces. “That hurts,” she croaks.
“How can it?” Pietà asks. Her voice is tinged with genuine curiosity. “I’m so gentle.”
“It just does.”
“I think you’re being overdramatic,” Pietà hums. “Just lay there and I’ll make you feel good.”
Augusta cringes as Pietà’s hand crawls up to cup the side of her face again. Inclining Augusta’s head upwards, Pietà slides their lips together. She’s soft, smooth, and tastes like lip balm.
Augusta hates it.
Maybe even if Pietà wasn’t a psycho and was instead a mere fan at a concert Augusta would enjoy it. If they met organically, then maybe Augusta would have taken her back to the hotel.
But could haves and should haves don’t matter. What matters is that Pietà is gently sucking her lower lip. Heat pools in Augusta’s lower abdomen, her body betraying her. She releases a garbled moan.
“I knew you would like that,” Pietà says as a smug smirk crosses her lips. She trails a series of open-mouthed kisses across Augusta’s jaw, dragging her wet tongue ever so slightly against Augusta’s clammy, sweaty skin.
Nipping Augusta’s earlobe, Pietà’s breath is hot and heavy, caressing the shell. “You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted you in this position. Under me. Maybe next time I can be under you.”
“I’d rather die,” Augusta grits through her clenched jaw. It reminds her vaguely of when she tried ecstasy for the first time, celebrating their first successful concert with her bandmates. She chipped her tooth.
If she were to clench her jaw any harder, the same would happen.
Exhaling slowly, even as her heart threatens to break free, Augusta forces her body to relax.
It’s a matter of endurance.
Of course, Pietà is delighted. “Have you finally succumbed?”
“No way,” Augusta retorts, hackles rising. “I’m just…”
“Just?” Pietà prods.
“Shut up and do your thing,” Augusta snaps. “The sooner you finish the sooner I can get back to my nap.”
“I love how impatient you are,” Pietà croons. Her hand trails to Augusta’s breast. Through Augusta’s bra, she grazes Augusta’s nipple. Pietà squeezes firmly and Augusta swallows down another groan, cursing her hypersensitivity.
Piece by piece Pietà conquers her, undressing Augusta as if Augusta were a doll and marveling at her body with child-like wonder. Augusta stares blankly at the ceiling as Pietà violates her. She bites down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
She can’t let Pietà know it feels good. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t —
But it does, and when Pietà latches onto a nipple, Augusta clamps a hand over her own mouth, refusing to release more weakness. She should be better than to derive pleasure from a rapist.
It’s karma for doing the same to her ex. Though if she could, she would violate her ex again in a heartbeat.
Augusta’s head is swimming, light-headed, and her mind departs from her body. No, it isn’t her being raped. It’s a different woman. One who deserves it. One who is weak.
Pietà, feeling Augusta’s chest shake with laughter, pouts. “This isn’t supposed to be funny. It’s supposed to make you feel good.”
Her hand trails down to Augusta’s crotch, over the thatch of dirty blonde curls concealing her most vulnerable part. Augusta’s giggles subside immediately, face twisting with loathed pleasure.
“I hate you,” she gasps as Pietà hand wanders into her as if to touch her very soul and make it even dirtier. “Don’t touch me. Stop.”
“Then do something about it,” Pietà taunts, plunging her fingers deeper. “Your words aren’t aligning with your body. You’re so wet and you’re taking it so well. It’s as if you made for this.”
Augusta gurgles. “Stop, stop, stop — “
The gibberish continues. Augusta grips the bedsheets, twisting them in her fist, threatening to pierce holes with her stubby nails. Her teeth clamp down her tongue to stifle her moans. She tastes copper.
If she had more guts, she’d bite off her tongue. Suffocate on her blood and die. But Pietà wouldn’t allow that. Maybe Pietà would even enjoy the aftermath of Augusta being unable to spit acidic words at her.
Eventually, Augusta orgasms. She pants, sweaty and exhausted and feeling sick. Oh, she’s so sick.
She lunges to the side of her bed as everything she had eaten in the bistro comes rushing out. It looks like pig slop.
Pietà’s silence is deafening. For a moment, Augusta is terrified that Pietà will make her lick the mess up. But instead, a gentle hand begins to rub circles against her naked back, sending goosebumps rippling across her flesh.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Pietà says softly. “Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten the duck. Look at how sick it made you.”
Her intentional ignorance sends Augusta vomiting once more.
“Let it out, let it out,” Pietà says as resentment bubbles under Augusta’s skin. Pietà’s touch is scalding. Burning her and penetrating her insides. The sticky mess between Augusta’s thighs, now cooling, is a testament to Pietà’s ownership. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Fuck you,” Augusta gags. Her eyes are watery, but she refuses to let them spill. She’s already been forced to reveal so much weakness. She can’t afford to allow more to be extracted.
“Maybe next time,” Pietà chuckles.
When Augusta’s guts are empty, she flops back onto her bed, resting her sweaty head on the pillow. The cool air from the fan laps at her damp skin like a dog.
Augusta shivers, exhausted, but Pietà won’t let her rest yet.
“You need to bathe and use the restroom,” Pietà coaxes. “Or else you’ll get sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I do,” Pietà says. She wraps an arm around Augusta’s forearm and yanks her off the bed. Augusta yelps as she stumbles to her feet and is dragged to the bathroom.
“I’ll prepare the bath while you use the toilet,” Pietà says, seating Augusta on the toilet. The lid clatters against the tank from the force. Augusta hisses at the cold contact against her skin.
Fortunately, Pietà doesn’t pay much interest in her, focused on getting bath water to the right temperature. So after much willpower, Augusta is able to empty her bladder and wash her hands, scrubbing until her skin is red and raw.
Pietà ushers her into the bath. To Augusta’s dismay, it’s the perfect temperature. But she still yaps at Pietà. “I’ll be swimming in my filth.”
“You’re never filthy,” Pietà replies as she sprays Augusta’s face head with the faucet, making Augusta screech as the powerful jets attack her exposed eyes. “Just let me take care of you. Continue being a pillow princess.”
“I’m not a child. I can bathe myself,” Augusta snaps. She spits out the water landed in her mouth.
Pietà wrinkles her nose. “That’s how you bathe in your filth. So unsanitary.”
“And you need to get me a new toothbrush too. With a case. I hate your rat.”
“Cat,” Pietà corrects. She switches off the showerhead and applies a generous amount of shampoo to her palm. Her shampoo, not Augusta’s, and Augusta withers at the idea of smelling like Pietà.
Pietà’s perfume, for once, is muted. Most likely sweated out from violating Augusta, but the fragrance clings to Pietà’s skin like a tic. Augusta is helpless to its attack.
Augusta swats Pietà’s hands away, refusing to be touched by her any longer. She grabs her own shampoo and squeezes it onto her hand. She unplugs the bath stopper and transitions to a proper shower. Her legs are wobbly as she gets to her feet.
Pietà, to her surprise, doesn’t put up a fight. But she does watch Augusta bathe, commenting that Augusta shouldn’t scrub her skin so intensely, claiming it’ll do something to her pores. Augusta ignores Pietà and scrubs with her nails until she’s red like a lobster.
As the filth slides down the drain, Augusta's mind returns to her body.
Her blood is on fire, licking every part of her insides, and the resentment that was boiling under her skin blossoms to full-blown fury. She slams her fist into the shower wall, not caring about her neighbors.
She punches the wall again and again and again.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” Pietà interjects.
Augusta spins on her heels and rams her knuckles into Pietà’s face A sickening crunch greets her.
“To hell with the videos,” Augusta roars. “Touch me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Pietà topples to the floor. Flat on her ass, she stares up at Augusta with wide, watery eyes. But instead of retaliating, a smile curves her lips. She cups her swollen cheek and ogles Augusta.
The silence is prolonged. Augusta’s fury abates and she thinks she might throw up again. She shouldn’t have lashed out. Her career is all she has and it’s a testament to what she used to represent.
Without it, she’s nothing.
“If the videos aren’t enough, I’ll find something else,” Pietà declares, beaming. “I’m keeping you.”
With Pietà, she’s worse than nothing.
But at least she’s not alone.