Augusta roams throughout the following week like a ghost, unable to register the living. Her hand smarts from punching Pietà and imaginary blisters bloomed. The ache kept Augusta locked in the incident, and the wound grew infected — oozing pus and paralyzing her.
“You missed your cue again,” a bandmate sighs. She sets down her drumsticks and Augusta turns to her. She can’t see the drummer's face; skin and eyes blur together into a slurry of murky color. “Are you okay?”
Augusta smiles crookedly, artificial as sweetener. She sets her guitar down to rub her knuckles, but it doesn’t soothe the throbbing. “Yeah, I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Okay,” the drummer says dubiously. “If you can’t keep your head in the game, then we gotta postpone.”
“I’m good, I promise,” Augusta swears, but is met with skeptical gazes. They penetrate her, peeling away each layer and baring her sickly, hollow soul. “Let’s run through this one more time.”
The drummer kicks it off. Augusta’s fingers clamp over the frets as she strums, mentally counting as she follows along on the music sheet. No one has memorized their part yet as the song is a new development but Augusta is typically the first.
She’s the frontman of Siren’s Echo. It’s her duty to set the pace. If she can’t even manage to catch a simple cue, then everything she’s worthless. Everything she’s worked so hard to build with blood and sweat will crumble like a dilapidated building during an earthquake.
Or like her, when Pietà placed her hands on Augusta’s —
The music stops. Augusta stares blankly at the sheet music. Her hands refuse to twitch.
“Seriously, Augusta, are you okay?” the bassist asks. “You can always talk to us. We’re coworkers, but we’re still friends.”
“Yeah,” the drummer pipes up. “You were there for me when my boyfriend dumped me.”
“And when my dad died,” the vocalist says.
She’s a friend from high school, but Augusta can’t remember her name either. Only Pietà and her dirty touches. Rot spreads through Augusta and she wonders what she would see if she were to peel her skin back.
“So the least we can do is also listen to you,” the bassist continues. “We’re always here for you.
Augusta laughs, snapping the air like a sharp crack from a whip. Her face twists into a sneer once her laughter dies. “I have actual fucking problems. I don’t need the help from you pathetic lot.”
You pathetic lot is something Pietà would say.
It isn’t enough that Pietà violated her body. She also ruined her way of speech, the method of communication that Augusta carefully crafted to emulate her state before her accident.
Back when she was human. Back when she felt more than rage and disgust. Back when her primary emotion wasn’t apathy.
Now there’s a chasm in a soul she can’t fill, whether it be from drugs or work or other people.
The vocalist’s eyes immediately water. “What are you talking about? My dad literally died.”
Augusta clicks her tongue. “Everyone dies. You’re not special.”
A series of gasps meet her, triggering a headache. Dead dads, ex-boyfriends. Who cares?
Augusta was literally raped. She’s literally being blackmailed by a psycho who caught her sexually abusing her ex. A psycho that could easily ruin everything she worked so hard for.
Augusta’s bandmates descend upon her like birds of prey, expressing their hurt. Their eyes grow as wide as saucers, but instead of engaging in fury, they express worry, pecking at Augusta like vultures.
Who hurt you? This isn’t you. Are you sure you’re okay?
But they only know the Augusta from before her brain injury. Carefully crafted to mimic the time when she was normal. She’s a wolf among sheep. A brightly colored snake among peacocks.
She slams her guitar on the floor, fragmenting the wood and shutting up the voices. Each strike is a boom of thunder as strings pop free and splinters scatter like a frag grenade. Panting, all that’s left of the carcass is a handle.
“Fuck this,” Augusta barks as she flings it to the side. “I’m leaving. Rehearsal canceled and put on hold.”
Before her bandmates can even react, Augusta storms out of the studio. She slams the elevator button, already igniting a cigarette. She tucks it between her lips and inhales deeply, filling her lungs with more tar.
“Smoking isn’t allowed,” the woman at the front desk calls out when Augusta reaches the bottom floor and storms past her.
Augusta extends her middle finger. “If you have a problem, shove it up your ass.”
The gasp worsens her headache. She shoves open the door with a bang and peers at the side of the road for a taxi, but before she can even raise her arm, a wretched voice calls out to her.
“You’re out early,” Pietà comments, leaning against her convertible. A cigarette dangles between her lips as she puffs and puffs away beneath a ‘NO SMOKING’ sign. “Did something happen?”
“Do you seriously think you look cool like that?” Augusta barks.
She gives up on the taxi. Pietà would never allow her out of her sight.
Augusta yanks the door of the convertible open. The edge scrapes against a neighboring car, leaving a scratched streak and blaring the alarm, but it’s not Augusta’s problem. The convertible shudders when she slams the door shut. “Let’s go before someone comes out.”
Already, curious heads are poking out of windows.
Pietà chuckles. She slides into the car, as fluid as water, and revs the engine. “The security cameras already caught us.”
“Not if you do something about it,” Augusta says. Her cigarette has already been reduced to a nub but there is no customary relaxation as nicotine strikes her neuroreceptors. She squishes it into the overflowing ashtray, sending particles drifting down the side. “You need to this clean up. It’s a mess.”
“All in due time,” Pietà hums as they exit the parking lot. “Beppe is healthy, by the way. He was just a tad constipated.”
Augusta hunts down her beef jerky and peels away the plastic, feeling like a monkey, and shoves the dehydrated meat into her mouth. “I fucking knew it.”
“I think I need to change their diet a bit,” Pietà muses. “Perhaps I should make salmon their staple instead of tilapia?”
“Just give them kibble. If they’re hungry enough, they’ll eat it.”
“Kibble is full of filthy things,” Pietà sniffs. She passes a red light. A police officer nested in a corner blares their siren and zips after them, following at their heels like a dog. “Oh, not again,” she moans.
“Then drive better,” Augusta says. She leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. The inside of the car is a mix of Pietà’s nauseating perfume and cigarettes. Augusta’s stomach rolls.
Pietà’s perfume is too sweet. But its main flaw is that it indicates that Pietà is nearby, with her crisp round glasses, manicured nails, and wavy bleached hair. Pietà, with her creepy smile, sharp eyes, and predatory hands.
Pietà pulls over to the side and rolls down the window. She rummages through her wallet, fishing out several hundred dollar bills. They’re ready in her hands by the time the police officer lumbers to Pietà's side of the car.
Without waiting for the police officer to speak, Pietà shoves the money into his chest. The police officer gives them an appraising look, then flips through the bills before giving a quick nod and trotting back to his car.
He drives away.
Once he becomes a dot in the distance, Pietà restarts her car and they amble down the street.
They drift into an unfamiliar land with strange buildings and landmarks. Augusta furrows her brows. “This isn’t the route to my place.”
“Nope,” Pietà says cheerfully. “We’re going to my place instead.”
“Take me back home,” Augusta demands. “I don’t want to see where you live. You probably have photos of me scattered all over the walls. A shrine and locks of my hair because you’re such a freak.”
Pietà mock gasps. She places a delicate hand on her chest, making Augusta scream: “Two hands on the wheel!”
“I would never do that,” Pietà says. She obeys Augusta and returns her slender hand to its proper place. Piano fingers. “Why take pictures when I can see the real thing whenever I please? And why cut your hair and ruin your beauty?”
“So I’d be ugly if I cut my hair?”
“You’d be a different kind of beautiful,” Pietà explains. “More coarse, like sand, but you’d be very chic. Perhaps even punk depending on the style. Never shave your head, however. I adore myself, but I would tire of seeing my reflection in your scalp.”
Augusta grimaces. Maybe if she were to remove her hair, then Pietà would get disgusted enough to leave. But Augusta gnaws on the ends when anxious. It’s a habit she never outgrew from when she was a stupid child who didn’t understand hygiene.
They roll into a driveway. Pietà’s house is small, but beautiful, consisting of thin brown-gray bricks. The entrance is sandwiched with pink flowers and the balcony on the second floor is fenced — protecting the large sliding doors.
Augusta can’t help but be impressed. Pietà makes enough money to own a house. Considering all the gifts she’s able to douse Augusta with, it only makes sense that everything else in her life is luxurious.
Augusta steps out of the car and flings the beef jerky wrapper to the side. It’s abducted by the wind, presumably to land in a sewage drain and suffocate a hungry turtle.
Pietà is already out, waiting on Augusta’s side of the car. She guides Augusta to the front door, attempting to place her hand on the small of Augusta’s back, but the contact burns, so Augusta walks faster.
Pietà is radioactive — starting with her mood and ending with her touches. They’re gentle, but Augusta is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She hit Pietà. It’s only natural for Pietà to take revenge.
When Pietà opens the door, they’re greeted by her cats. Beppe is lying beneath the coffee table, barely able to fit beneath it. He’s as fat as ever and probably can’t even jump anymore. Donatello, meanwhile, rubs himself against Augusta’s leg, splashing fur all over her washed-out, ripped jeans.
The third cat is nowhere to be seen. Augusta doesn’t ask, but Pietà answers anyway.
“Napoleon is probably hiding under the sofa,” Pietà explains as she removes her shoes and places them on a cramped shoe rack. They’re all designer.
The thorns of feminine envy wrap around Augusta and stab her. She points at a pair of shoes. “I want those.”
Pietà beams. “Finally, you ask for something. I’ll order a pair right now. Let me get my laptop.”
She flounces away like a fairy, disappearing up stubby stairs and into what’s presumably her room. Augusta flops onto the sofa, sinking into the plush cushions, and examines Pietà’s neutral-colored home.
The television is fresh off the market, alongside the couch and coffee table, and lights. Her kitchen, which is separated by an island, has a granite finish alongside an actual knife rack. Pots dangle from hooks on the wall rather than being tucked away in cabinets like in Augusta’s place. There’s even a food processor.
The crockpot, sitting by its lonesome, is flicked on. Augusta inhales and her stomach rumbles. Energy drinks and cigarettes are not a good breakfast, despite her attempts to train her body into accepting it.
Donatello hops onto the seat and curls up on her lap. He immediately begins to lick his butthole. Augusta shoves him back onto the floor. He lands on his feet and meows loudly, ears twitching as his tail sways from side to side. His eyes are wide.
“You’re nasty,” Augusta says to the cat. “Don’t do that ever again.”
Donatello seemingly listens because he rubs himself against Augusta’s legs once more before resting his head on her shoe. His eyes flutter shut and his breathing immediately evens out. It’s a sleep Augusta can only obtain if she were to down sleeping pills with alcohol.
In spite of the distraction, Augusta’s skin crawls as the cloying scent of Pietà wraps around her.
Pietà sat here. Pietà lays on this couch to watch television. Pietà uses the toys laying around to play with her cats.
She isn’t just an entity that crawled out of Italy to torture her. Pietà is a human with likes and dislikes.
Pietà has a house here. Pietà is here to stay.
August swallows down the heavy ball in her throat and soothes herself by looking at her photo gallery, which contains nothing but selfies. Working backward, she witnesses her decomposition in reverse.
Her eyes always lacked the shine of life, but her shoulders weren’t burdened with a Sisyphus-like weight. The more Augusta travels back in time, the more unrecognizable she becomes. Dead inside, yes. Miserable, yes. But that misery was of her own making rather than from a clingy, psycho bitch.
Pietà comes back when Augusta has begun to take photos with her Blackberry.
“Sorry for the wait!” Pietà trills, white laptop in hand. She sits beside Augusta. Their shoulders press together so Augusta scoots away, tucking her phone into her small pocket. The curse of female clothing.
“I did a bit of cleaning up while I was fetching my laptop. Isn’t it beautiful?” Pietà asks as she caresses the piece of technology.
It’s a Macbook, complete with the stupid, shiny apple on the back. It’s shiny and well taken care of and new. The worst Augusta can say is: “It’s too skinny.”
“It’s top of the line,” Pietà chatters as her fingers fly over the keyboard. When she logs in, a million tabs greet them — so crowded that not even a logo is visible. Pietà flushes and closes them all with a command. “Whoops!”
Augusta blinks, unfamiliar with computers.
She only used them when mandatory in school, having lacked one at home from being trailer trash. She was raised by a single mom who had too many mouths to feed. The private high school she landed in, fortunately, had a scholarship, but there were still expenses.
It all came to a standstill when her youngest sister kept crying and crying because she was hungry.
Augusta couldn’t take it anymore. She snapped.
“These are the shoes I bought,” Pietà beams, rotating the screen. “I’m particularly fond of their other designs, but you liked this one the most.”
Augusta yanks the laptop away and places it on her lap. It dangles precariously for a moment, sending Augusta’s heart into overdrive at breaking something so valuable. But a broken laptop is the least Augusta could do for Pietà.
“I’m gonna buy other stuff,” Augusta decides. She doesn’t know how to navigate the site, so she stares dumbly at the screen, trying to detect the main page. “Does this place only sell shoes?”
Pietà leans over, hair falling off her shoulders and brushing against Augusta. Her shampoo isn’t as sickening as her perfume, it’s still nauseating. Augusta leans back to create distance.
Pietà’s stench clings to gravid air. Augusta swallows down a gag; she can almost taste it.
Pietà directs her to the navigation portion of the site. “They have everything under the sun. It’s an apparel store. Gucci, if you’re familiar with it.”
Augusta’s memory clicks into place as she registers the logo — two golden G’s interlocked. She couldn’t see it on the shoe rack. It was hidden by other shoes with other unfamiliar signs. “Weird name.”
“It’s Italian,” Pietà blabbers. “Of course, I’m also fond of — “
She goes on an entire spiel regarding designers Augusta never knew existed. Her voice is grating, making Augusta’s temple throb further. Augusta continues scrolling through the site before landing on another desirable object. Wordlessly, she adds it to the cart.
“Excellent choice,” Pietà compliments. “I don’t think you have any clothes that would properly allow you to reveal its glory, but we can fix that.”
She snatches the laptop back, fingers flying. She scrolls through the site fast enough to make Augusta’s head swim, so August decides to look at the cats. Beppe is still meowing, but Pietà’s chatter drowned it out.
Now that Pietà is focused on Augusta’s wardrobe, the creature’s scratchy voice is at full force.
Augusta pinches the bridge of her nose. “Can you shut him up? He’s annoying.”
“He’s just hungry,” Pietà finalizes the order and stares at Augusta with big, sad eyes as if she were a puppy left out in the rain. “I’m trying to put him on a diet like the veterinarian said, but I can’t stand to see him so sad.”
“Then feed him,” Augusta snaps. “He’s giving me a headache.”
“I have pain relievers in the cabinet,” Pietà offers.
Augusta switches tactics. “His life is already short because he’s a cat. He should be able to enjoy it to the fullest.”
“But I can prolong his life span if I put him on a diet,” Pietà protests. She sniffs delicately, eyes shiny with unshed tears. Her shoulders droop further. “I don’t know what I’ll do when he dies.”
“Everything dies. It’s better to be living rather than surviving,” Augusta grits, clenching her fist so that she doesn’t punch Pietà. “A dead pet isn’t going to kill you. You’re better than that.”
Immediately, Augusta wants to hurl. Those words are disgusting. It’s a compliment and Pietà doesn’t deserve it, but Augusta just cannot fathom being so attached to another creature. Especially one so weak and dependent.
Pietà is the closest thing to Augusta’s species. Calculative and cruel, Augusta has always been the one to bend people to her will after her traumatic brain injury. Pietà is a direct counter to her existence, bending her instead.
“You’re so sweet,” Pietà croons. “I knew I was breaking you in. First, the bistro where you called me by my name, and now this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were warming up to me.”
“Burn in hell,” Augusta snaps. “Enjoy your dead pet.”
“Beppe will live forever,” Pietà proclaims. She transfers the laptop to Augusta’s lap and rises from the couch.
She pads to the kitchen soundlessly and pulls out a bag of treats. “They’re doing amazing things with science. Human longevity is at an all-time high, so why shouldn’t the same apply to cats?”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m rich,” Pietà clarifies. She dumps a handful of treats into her palm. Beppe flounces over, fat jiggling as his fur shines from the sunshine that wiggled its way between the curtains. He delicately eats from Pietà’s palm, one piece at a time, as if well-mannered.
“Your tongue tickles,” Pietà giggles. A high, girlish thing.
“Your laugh is ugly.”
“You’re the only person who has even called me ugly. I’ve decided to take it as a compliment. Intentional falsehoods are special.”
Augusta wrinkles her nose.
Pietà washes her hands, scrubbing for the exact twenty seconds required, and returns to Augusta’s side. She swoops the laptop from Augusta’s lap and closes it. She places it on the coffee table and stares at Augusta with wide, expectant eyes. Alien-like, hidden beneath expensive, round glasses.
The house is deathly quiet, amplifying the nasty grooming sounds as the cats lick themselves — spiked tongues digging deep into glossy fur. If only Pietà lived in a cheap enough home where the lights buzzed. Where the air conditioner doesn’t work so electric fans whirred instead.
Anything to distract Augusta that what she knows is about to come next.
“Let’s watch something on television,” she tries desperately. She fumbles for the remote controller, but it’s nowhere in sight. “You like ‘The Biggest Loser,’ right? I know the channel number. I can find it in a flash.”
A slow smile curls Pietà’s lips. Mocking and cold. “You’re trying to escape me.”
“No shit. I don’t want to be raped again.”
“It wouldn’t be rape if you just accepted me. I made you feel good. I made you orgasm. I can do it again.”
Augusta clenches her jaw. “I can get that from anyone.”
“But let’s be serious — who would want you?” Pietà’s laugh is as sharp as a knife fresh off a whetstone. “You’re not particularly beautiful. Yes, you have good bone structure and maintain your body, but there’s nothing inside of you. It’s empty. No matter how hard you try, people can sense it.”
Augusta shudders, thorny words breaking her already-crumbling wall. She clenches her jaw, the muscle beneath her skin accommodating the motion.
“I’ve seen your bandmates keep you at a distance,” Pietà continues as if she isn’t spreading Augusta across the board like a charcuterie platter. “I know you sense it too. They don’t invite you to the outings you know exist. The most they’ll give you is a clap on the back for a job well done. And while you perform the act, the lack of intent is palpable.”
“That's bullshit,” Augusta grits. She wraps her arms around herself, nails digging crescents into the same place as last time, and she feels small. Like she’s being attacked by her high school bully who hated her for breathing the same air if Augusta didn’t earn her right to walk amongst the privileged. “My bandmates like me. They said so.“
“Do you hear yourself right now? They said so,” Pietà mocks. “You’re a child who can’t even tell the difference between lip service and truth. Of course, they’d say that you’re the frontman. They need you, but they don’t like you. Actions speak louder than words, but I’m the only person where both of those align.”
Pietà cups the side of Augusta’s head and angles for a kiss, but Augusta jolts back, shivering as Pietà’s perfume consumes her. “The cats,” she stalls, seeking to prolong the inevitable.
Pietà brushes it off. “They’re cats. They lick their anuses where anyone can see them and mate in public. They won’t care.”
“There’s fur on the couch,” Augusta tries weakly. “It’s dirty.”
“My bed also has fur. The cats sleep with me. You can’t escape this, bambola.”,/p>
Pietà slides her lips against Augusta’s. They’re as smooth as last time and taste the same. Sticky with excess gloss.
Augusta realizes that this, unlike the previous time, is premeditated.
It’s not a spur-of-the-moment act of ownership that was fueled by jealousy. This attack on her autonomy is from genuine desire.
“Why are you doing this?” Augusta asks, feeling the same fear as when her clothes were stolen during gym class, leaving her to wander the halls for a teacher in nothing but a towel.
“Because I like you,” Pietà cuts. “And sex is the greatest form of intimacy.”
“It’s not,” Augusta manages, curling into herself. “Sex is sex. That’s it.”
“But to me it isn't,” Pietà says between kisses.
Pietà’s tongue invades her mouth, grazing over Augusta’s teeth and caressing Augusta’s tongue. She continues to speak. A trail of saliva connects their lips. Augusta pops it with her finger.
“Italian is a romance language, so consider me a romantic.”
Augusta curses her body for trembling.
Pieta’s hands drift beneath Augusta’s tank top. She carefully peels it off Augusta, and when Augusta doesn’t raise her arms, her silent rebuttal, she manipulates Augusta’s body as if Augusta were a doll.
Bared in jeans and a plain black bra, Augusta shivers. Goosebumps rise across her arms, making her feel like a chicken whose feathers were freshly plucked. She’s a carcass before a butcher. It’s only a matter of time before the meat cleaver swings down upon her.
“I lied about calling you mediocre, by the way,” Pietà says, greedily consuming Augusta and tasting her fear. It must be sweet like vanilla or else Pietà wouldn’t be addicted.
“I know,” Augusta croaks.
Her body is maintained through cigarettes. The nicotine dulls her appetite and exercise to make her tired enough to sleep. But diet-wise, Pietà has infected her. Her picky demeanor demands certain foods so Augusta is dragged along to consume stuff she wouldn’t otherwise eat.
“There was only one other woman in my life that I considered beautiful, but now she’s dead to me. But you, Augusta, will live in my heart forever.”
Forever. Eternity. She’s only 33. Spending the next 50 years beneath Pietà’s claws isn’t something she ever imagined, pseudo-optimism allowing her to trudge through the never-ending nightmare. It’s a remnant of before the accident when her eyes were bright and she looked forward to the future.
But Augusta’s future has been black for too many years to count.
Maybe one day, Pietà will get bored and leave. But Pietà might leak the videos out of said boredom.
So it really will be the next 50 years.
Augusta swears as Pietà wraps her arms around her, a facsimile of a hug. She unhooks her bra. The garment slides away easily, leaving Augusta half-naked.
“I wish you had a different type of accident. One that left more scars so you wouldn’t be revealing your shoulders all the time. Aren’t those considered indecent in the American school system?”
Pietà’s talons sink into Augusta’s scalp and grope around before settling on raised skin. Scar tissue. “But instead your brain was injured and you were ruined. I was initially charmed by the manner you presented yourself. However, discovering how you treated your ex was a treat. I never would have been able to be as close to you as I am now without it.”
“It’s karma,” Augusta murmurs, shaking off Pietà’s grasp. The hand follows and carefully draws Augusta’s head back to its original position.
Augusta doesn’t know what kind of expression she’s making. But her heart is thudding loud enough for her to hear it. Her blood is sloshing in her veins, slamming against vascular walls to escape. Her mouth is sticky as if with sweat. Her breathing is quick and shallow, not transporting enough oxygen and making her light-headed.
Pietà inhales sharply. The white light creates shadows in all the places that don’t matter. Her eyes are visible, wide and manic, but there’s a drooping frown curving her lips.
A sad Pietà is worse than a happy Pietà.
Augusta’s stomach drops.
“Do you really think of me like that?” Pietà asks, voice quivering. “That I’m the revenge the universe sent out?”
“What else am I supposed to think? I did bad things and even worse things are happening to me.”
:“I treat you well,” Pietà insists. “I buy you nice food, clothes, and jewelry. I go on outings with you to make sure you’re not wallowing in your own rot. Sexually, I give you what others can’t. I make you feel good.”
“I don’t want any of that,” Augusta croaks. Pietà is a bully, but instead of attacking with pure malice, it’s with delusional care. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“But who were you before me?” Pietà questions. She unwinds her hand from Augusta’s hair, stringy from sweat, and trails a series of open-mouthed kisses down the sharp incline of her jaw, dipping to Augusta’s neck, where her carotid artery flutters.
She settles on Augusta’s breasts.
Augusta releases a high, keening whine when Pietà latches on. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks, as if a newborn.
“Yes, you were a rockstar with quote-unquote friends but you were merely going through the motions trying to recover who you were,” Pietà speaks into the valley between Augusta’s breasts, breath hot. She deftly unbuttons Augusta’s jeans, easily slipping the button through the hole and tugging down the zipper.
“How could you possibly know that?” Augusta grits. She clamps down on her knuckles to silence herself, ashamed of her pathetic moans and whimpers. Ashamed of her weakness.
“I read your files,” Pietà answers. She recites the headlines of the school newspaper. “Hotshot scholarship student getting a traumatic brain injury after a game gone wrong. Assaults a fellow student and gets expelled from her high school.”
“You’re so fucking insane,” Augusta hisses. Bruises like violets bloom across her breasts as Pietà marks her, as territorial as a dog. She won’t be able to wear her usual tank tops for the upcoming days.
“What I don’t understand is why your mother kicked you out,” Pietà says. “Shouldn't someone with three kids, especially living in a trailer, value their children more?”
“You know nothing,” Augusta growls. “Stop trying to analyze me. Stop trying to touch me. Fucking leave me alone — “
“But you’re not meant to be alone. Why else would you pursue a career in music? It’s the most attention-seeking job there is. Concerts are just to receive the veneration of the masses and being in a group is for camaraderie.”
“Shut up,” Augusta chants. “Shut up, shut up, shut up — “
Pietà shucks off Augusta’s jeans, fighting Augusta’s motionless legs, before revealing Augusta’s black underwear. Pubes poke from the edges of her panties. She hasn’t trimmed since Pietà last raped her, too disgusted by her body. But shame does not attack Augusta for her self-negligence.
She’s the victim. Embarrassment of the corporeal form is not allowed.
“I’m just speaking the truth as it’s meant to be perceived,” Pietà says mildly as she stares down at Augusta’s crotch. “You’re so wet that you left a mark on my couch. How fascinating.”
“I hate you,” Augusta gurgles as Pietà slides off her panties. Her mouth descends upon Augusta and Augusta can’t help the cacophony of moans that crawl out of her aching throat. “Stop doing this to me, stop making me feel good — “
Pietà licks her shiny lips. “Finally, you acknowledge my talent.”
Augusta shuts her jaw with an audible snap. She’s not going to reply. All she needs to do is allow the passage of time to occur. Pietà will get all her twisted perversions out of her system, then Augusta can go home and punch the mirror until it breaks and her hands are ruined.
She’s not going to reply. She’s not going to reply. She’s not going to reply —
“It’d be hard not to,” Augusta grunts and immediately curses herself Her knuckle is sticky with saliva and blood, a monstrous concoction that she no longer wants to taste.
She rationalizes her blabber. Talking takes her mind off of things. Talking gives her power. At least in some way, she’s resisting.
“I hope you die. I hope that next time you get in your car, you get t-boned. And that you’ll have a slow, painful death with your tits sliced off from the seatbelt as you bleed out.”
“Not wishing brain damage upon me? So considerate. A free mastectomy is the least of my worries. You wouldn’t understand, but having large breasts does cause back problems.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Maybe next time.”
Pietà tears an orgasm out of Augusta as if she were a wet towel. Endorphins flood her nerves, forcing her into a relaxed state. Her stomach is still rolling with disgust, but unlike last time she doesn’t vomit. Augusta doesn’t know what to think about that.
Is she increasing her tolerance for being raped? Or is it acceptance that this will be her new reality? Or worse: is her body being conditioned to properly enjoy it?
Pietà detaches from her at long last. She wipes the back of his mouth with her hand. “You should really shave. It’s difficult to eat you out when there’s a hedge getting in my way.”
“Shave me yourself then,” Augusta drawls through the hazy, post-orgasmic bliss. Her lax state is akin to being weak with a fever. Laying on the leather couch, Augusta is swimming in her fluids, plastered against the couch like a crayon melted in a hot car.
“Maybe I will,” Pietà muses. “It would be doing us both a favor. And would be a tremendous bonding activity.”
Augusta immediately peels herself off the couch, cringing as the leather clings to her skin. She doesn’t need to see her back to know how red it is. “Fuck no.”
“It was only a thought,” Pietà sighs wistfully. “The bathroom is down the hall to the right. Don’t get a urinary tract infection. I heard that human mouths are dirtier than cat mouths.”
That reminds Augusta of the disgusting noise of a spiked tongue against fur that’s been the melody playing throughout the entire incident.
She was raped in the presence of three cats. Augusta’s entire body flushes as if overtaken by a rash.
“Donatello, have you finally come out? It’s so nice to see you again. No, don’t sniff that area! You’ll get sick!”
Augusta flees, sick once more at the idea of a cat investigating her juices.
The toilet is a bidet and Augusta jumps at the burst of cold water that attacks her. There’s a towel on the counter, proven clean by a simple sniff test. After Augusta washes her hands, she hops into the shower and scrubs herself the best she can.
She doesn’t want to smell like Pietà, but she wants to be clean more than anything. She claws herself until she’s as red as a lobster — peeling away the first layer of skin on certain regions. The water and soap sting viciously against them, indicating the shower is finished.
The air is cold against her brittle skin. She wraps herself into the towel and drips out of the bathroom, returning to the living room for her pair of clothes, which are folded neatly on the coffee table. The couch is shiny and a bottle of Lysol is beside the folded clothes.
Augusta is glad that at least one mark of hers is removed. Even if it’s for the cats.
Pietà is deep in the kitchen. Her back faces Augusta, the strap of an apron wrapped around her waist, but she greets Augusta with: “Thought you drowned in there.”
“Are you a dad? Don’t talk like that,” Augusta grumbles. She scoops her clothes and trots back to the bathroom, refusing to change in Pietà’s presence.
Her panties jumble around her knees, making her click her tongue, and her damp skin makes rotating the bra into position after clipping it an entire battle. The tank top slides on easily enough, but the jeans fight against the aftermath of the shower.
Barefooted, she pads back to the living room, intent on calling a taxi. But the dining table has been set and there’s something there that smells good. Augusta’s traitorous stomach growls and she can’t help but breathe it in.
Pietà’s lips quirk upwards as a satisfied look curls across her face as if she were the cat that caught the canary. “It’s beef stroganoff. I figured you’d be hungry after band practice and our activities so I prepared us both something to eat.”
It does sound good. Smells delicious and probably would be because Pietà is a picky eater. The only way she’s satisfied is if she prepared something herself because she can tailor it to her tastes.
But even though the beef stroganoff drowns out Pietà’s perfume and the heat radiating from the kitchen reminds Augusta of better days when she was a child, she’s still in Pietà’s home. She was still raped. She’s still being blackmailed by a psycho, even if that psycho is wearing an apron.
“I hate beef stroganoff,” Augusta declares. She’s never tried beef stroganoff but the association to Pietà is enough to make her stomach churn.
She quickly puts on her shoes. Improperly. Crushing the heel. She storms out of the house, leaving the door wide open.
Pietà hurries after her, closing it swiftly so that the cats don’t escape. “Where are you going?”
“Home!” Augusta shouts, typing in the number for a taxi. She looks for street signs to indicate what part of the city she’s in and examines the numbers on the houses.
“But I bought you clothes!” Pietà’s frantic voice grows smaller and smaller as Augusta widens the distance between them. “I made you feel good! I — “
Augusta ignores her.
She doesn’t look back.