Unlike Augusta, Lotte lives in a house. It’s two stories high and is inhabited by three other women that Augusta can’t remember the details of. They’re gorgeous, but their personalities left no impact, which is fine because Augusta is after appearance rather than character. However, seducing a bandmate’s roommates is a recipe for a disaster that Augusta doesn’t want to deal with.
The roommates helped lug the alcohol from the car into the kitchen and then helped the band unpack it. An array of beers and seltzers decorate the counter. Multiple stacks, still in their boxes, sit in the corner and Augusta wishes it was only beer, but they had to account for those with a sweet tooth.
In the living room, a disco light machine rotates. The body is made out of cheap plastic, but it produces a series of bright colors that illuminate the room and splash the walls and people with color. A stereo blasts music that belongs at a club, but only a few people dance. Those who do dance merely sway on their feet.
It’s more of a kickback than anything, which Augusta appreciates. She’s still recovering from dealing with Pietà. Today is Pietà’s birthday and Augusta is skipping the celebration to party with her bandmates. She agreed only to get Pietà off her back. It will incur the wrath of a woman scorned, but Augusta can’t bring herself to care.
Anyway, Lotte owns a house. Complete with good furniture, a mahogany coffee table, a wide television, decoration, and potted plants. There is an actual color scheme so the throw pillows match the couch, which matches the coffee table, which matches the rest of the living room.
Augusta seethes as she nurses a beer. She stares down at a painting hanging up on the wall. It’s pop art and is reflective of the type of person Lotte and her roommates are, and is a refreshing splash of color against the muted browns of the room.
Augusta’s flat is dilapidated in comparison. She has no color scheme or matching decor. There are only trinkets from tours that caught her mild interest. The bulk of Augusta’s treasures lie in her room, but they’re gifts from Pietà and though they’re beautiful, Augusta can barely stomach them.
Before Pietà invaded her life, Augusta wore them freely. Then continued to wear them after Pietà became a pest because it would be a waste to allow the jewelry to collect dust. Yet repeated instances of rape lowered Augusta’s tolerance. Pietà has already laid her hands on her and her way of living. Those hands continuing to touch her, even as an inanimate object, make Augusta queasy.
Goosebumps crawl against Augusta’s skin at the memory of Pietà’s most recent violation. Slender hands, a wet squelching noise, then twenty seconds of pounding lightheadedness as Augusta withstood the force of her toe-curling orgasm.
Augusta throws her head back and guzzles the beer. She tightens her grip on the can, which is slick with condensation, and dents the aluminum. When it’s empty, Augusta smacks her lips, crushes the can with her hands, and then trots to the kitchen. She wants to toss the can to the floor, but she’s part of the clean-up crew.
It takes a village to raise a child and it takes an entire band, alongside roommates, to host a party. Pietà had given Augusta one of her credit cards so Augusta could spoil herself when Pietà was unable to, so Augustsa used it to pitch in for alcohol.
A series of violent gags interrupt Augusta’s thoughts. After grabbing another beer and popping it open, she drags her eyes across the kitchen to find its source. Her gaze stops at the sink, where a brunette is hunched over and retching. The room doesn’t smell, which means that the woman hasn’t vomited, but it’s not Augusta’s problem.
Lotte, as the host, will be the one to clean it up.
Augusta takes a moment to appreciate the woman’s ass, but then violent tremors wrack the woman’s shoulders as she releases a series of grotesque gags once more, so Augusta flees to the living room. A nice ass isn’t enough to make Augusta help someone even though it would be a great opportunity to take her home and abuse the situation.
Augusta surveys her surroundings and winces when the disco ball’s light strikes her eyes. Blinking quickly, she allows her eyes to roam the room once more. Spots dance in her vision.
Lotte and Nicole sit across from each other on the sofa. A coffee table is wedged between them and a grimace crosses Augusta’s face at the sight of their sloppy smiles. They’re too joyful for Lotte to be trashing Augusta’s character, but there will be plenty of opportunities for that as the party progresses.
Meanwhile, Tina is nowhere in sight. She is probably fixing her makeup in the bathroom and hogging the mirror as desperate people slam their fists on the door to piss out the cheap booze in their systems.
There is a decent dent in their alcohol reserves. Augusta is positive it’ll run out before the night ends.
Alone in the corner is another brunette whose hair ends in the middle of her back. Young and fresh, she worries her plump lower lip between white teeth as she holds a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. She stares longingly at a group of people chatting. Their bodies sway absently from the music and their hands fly across the air as they gesticulate. Augusta spies a puddle of liquid at their feet and clicks her tongue.
She probably won’t be on mopping duty, but there’s always a chance.
Pink light splashes onto the brunette in the corner. It illuminates her features: perky tits, doe eyes, button nose, and a criminally tight dress that hugs sweet curves.
Water is wet, the sky is blue, and the brunette is cute.
A hook-up with a girl that isn’t throwing up her guts will make the night worth it.
Augusta strides over, swagger in her step, and shoots the brunette a friendly smile. What the woman wants is to feel included. Augusta can easily do that.
But before Augusta can even be noticed, Tina barrels into her. Her lipstick is stark against her tan skin, freshly applied, and she curls her fingers around Augusta’s wrists. Augusta’s beer sloshes and splashes onto Augusta’s forearm. Augusta shivers, heart racing as Tina’s touch triggers memories of Pietà. But Tina’s perfume is floral like rose water and soothes Augusta’s racing heart as she thinks of the facts.
It isn’t Pietà grabbing her. It’s Tina, holding her in the way girls hold other girls. Tina, her bandmate that has been with her through the highs and lows of Siren’s Echo.
It’s Tina.
“There you are!” Tina exclaims. Her eyes are bright, unswayed by alcohol, and Augusta wishes she had as strong a tolerance as hers. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Yeah?” Augusta asks as she quirks a brow.
Her skin buzzes. Every inch of her seeks escape despite knowing that Tina is harmless, but jerking back from Tina would cause more harm than good. Augusta is aware of their poorly concealed pitying looks. It picks at an old wound she thought she grew out of, but Pietà tugged the stitches until it fell undone. Then she dug her hands into Augusta’s rot to let the maggots run free — worsening Augusta.
Making her snap at Nicole, who is sheltered and kind. Making her butt heads with Lotte more than usual, who used to be a nuisance at most. Making her uncomfortable around Tina, who’s all smiles and blind exuberance.
“Yeah,” Tina confirms. Her head bobs, matching the beat of the music, and she swings Augusta's arms from side to side. “We’re in desperate need of girl time.”
“Huh?” Augusta blinks.
“We haven’t had any movie binges in a while,” Tina pouts. “Or ice cream and window shopping dates.”
Augusta tries to think back to the last time they went on an outing together. There was the weekend when they were supposed to try out a new restaurant after rehearsal, but Pietà picked her up that day so Augusta wasn’t able to attend. Then the other time Pietà left Augusta with a soreness that created a limp she didn’t have the energy to masquerade as a fun night out, causing Augusta to miss out on clubbing. Then there was —
“Since we don’t see you often,” Tina continues. “We need to make the most of this party. Now come. Nicole and Lotte are waiting.”
She drags Augusta to the sofa. Nicole and Lotte stop chatting when they arrive. Lotte’s expression doesn’t change. It’s hazy with booze yet friendly. Augusta has to applaud her restraint. If she had drunk the same amount as Lotte, then she would be obvious with her vitriol.
“Augusta!” Nicole greets. She pats the empty cushion beside her. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Augusta squeezes through the space between the sofa and the coffee table. She plops down on the couch. “I’m here.”
“It’s been a while,” Lotte greets as Tina moves to sit beside her.
“Two hours is too long to be away from you guys,” Augusta replies.
Tina nods sagely. “Exactly.”
“How is everyone?” Augusta questions as she feigns a yawn, raising her arms to the sky to drop one around Nicole’s shoulder. “Especially you, my dear.”
Nicole titters, high and coquettish and painfully fake as she leans into Augusta’s touch. “Oh, I’m fantastic. Speaking of fantastic things, we must discuss the future.”
Her fingertips drift up Augusta’s arm. Nicole's touch is featherlight and teasing, almost making Augusta squirm from how ticklish it is. Her hands are smooth from being the lead singer as she exercises her voice rather than her body. It shows in the baby-soft nature of her skin.
Augusta’s heart races at the contact, but unlike Pietà’s touches, these are reciprocated. Nicole smells of strawberry shampoo and though it’s sweet, it’s entirely unlike Pietà.
Nicole is the only remnant of Augusta before her accident. She’s the friendliness that used to be genuine, the blistering insecurity of her background, the naivete of youth, and the crushing reminder that things will never be as they were before.
“I want a grand wedding,” Nicole croons, nuzzling Augusta’s shoulder with the side of her head. “With blackjack and strippers.">/p>
“I’ll give you the world,” Augusta chuckles, tightening her grip on Nicole’s shoulders. Their thighs are pressed together and they’re draped over one another as if to merge into one. “But don’t forget the hookers, my love.”
Tina, bright-eyed, clamps her hands over his mouth, smothering giggles that seek to break free. In compensation, she releases small, ugly snorts that Augusta prefers to the saccharine giggles of Pietà. Meanwhile, Lotte’s lips are pressed into a thin line, but the edges twitch as she barely suppresses a smile.
“I would never,” Nicole says breathily, batting her eyes. “It’s not a wedding without your family attending.”
And that breaks the damn.
Tina roars, throwing her head as she cackles. Then she begins to cough, no doubt swallowing the wrong way, so Lotte feebly pounds her back as she attempts to overcome her own laughter.
Irritation pricks Augusta. Her family is a sensitive subject and Nicole knows that, but it isn’t something worth creating a problem over. All Nicole knows is that her family kicked her out, which Augusta shared to garner sympathy, but Nicole isn’t aware that Augusta attempted to beat her younger sister.
Tina and Lotte also don’t know better. They simply take it as a jest.
“I’ll be a bridesmaid,” Tina volunteers. She elbows Lotte gently and tosses her a smile. “You should be the best man since Augusta is obviously the groom.”
Augusta raises a brow and wonders what masculinity Tina detects in her.
“I don’t think I’d be able to pull off the speech,” Lotte says as she shakes her head. Her lips are curved in a matching smile.
“You definitely would be able to,” Nicole pipes in. “The lyrics you write for songs are great, so a speech would be even better.”
“I think speeches and song lyrics are different,” Augusta mutters to herself. Then raises her voice to a regular volume. “Okay. I’m the groom, Nicole is my beautiful wife, Tina is her bridesmaid, and Lotte is my groomsman. The venue should naturally be Las Vegas.”
“We should definitely go there,” Tina gushes. “Even without marriage, we should go there to celebrate another year of being together.”
“A vacation with just us girls,” Augusta muses, reflecting on the last time she was in Las Vegas.
It was for a tour so she wasn’t able to enjoy the women properly, but she regretted not indulging. It was before Pietà entered her life and everything before Pietà was preferable.
But speak of the devil and she will appear. Pietà stands across the room, almost lost in the crowd that Augusta forgot existed. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her eyes are stormy. She’s dressed for the weather, clocked in a long, beige, coat, a black turtleneck with equally dark slacks, and then boots. Augusta, warm from booze, feels hot just looking at her.
Augusta shoots her a glare. Pietà glares back but beckons her fingers in a come-hither motion. August wants to ignore her. To tear her eyes away, but she’s already pushing it by abandoning Pietà on her birthday. She would do it again in a heartbeat, but Augusta doesn’t want Pietà and her bandmates to ever interact.
Siren’s Echo is a testament to Augusta’s success. She carefully cultivated a personality that was akin to her previous one and wore it like a well-loved pair of jeans. She created connections and then used those connections to form a community. It’s a fraught line to balance her true self with the self that was palatable, but Augusta manages.
Pietà, on the other hand, is everything rotten. She peeled Augusta’s skin back, layer by layer, and revealed the bugs wriggling beneath her exterior. She brings out the real Augusta, who is weak and bitter and cruel.
Augusta can’t have Pietà ruining the one thing she has going for her.
“I gotta take a leak,” Augusta says when Pietá jerks her head in the direction of the stairs. “Be back in a few.”
She gently pushes Nicole away and rises to her feet. Once her back faces them, Augusta allows a sneer to mutilate her expression. Lips curled in distaste, she then follows Pietà, who glides up the stairs.
Around them, the party is reaching a crescendo. More people are dancing, but most cling to the walls like barnacles as they chat, holding their beers and seltzers. Like Augusta’s bandmates, they’re unaware of the travesty to occur.
Pietà guides Augusta up the stairs and to a door at the end of the hall. She drops to a crouch and sticks a hairpin into the lock, jiggling it with barely audible clicks.
“Why the hell are you picking the lock?” Augusta hisses, keeping her voice low as she furtively looks down the hall.
If anyone were to find them, Augusta would be knee-deep in shit.
“For privacy,” Pietà replies sharply. Her hair falls over her shoulder like a waterfall, concealing her face. “Are you going to continue asking stupid questions and risk us getting caught or are you going to stay quiet?”
Augusta sees the scowl in her mind’s eye and grimaces. She doesn’t reply though. Pietà has a point no matter how unfortunate it may be.
After a few more seconds, the lock clicks. Pietà swings the door wide open, making Augusta’s heart nearly leap out of her chest at the idea of the door knob slamming against the wall and alerting everyone of their intrusion, but it doesn’t happen. Pietà has control of the door just as she has control of the situation.
Pietà ushers Augusta inside first. Augusta's shoulder checks Pietà on the way and disappointment pokes her like an acupuncture needle at Pietà’s rock-solid stance. Pietà didn’t even take a step back to catch her balance.
Augusta steps over a patch of dirty laundry on her way to the heart of Lotte’s room. Lotte is many things but clean isn’t one of them. A pair of panties hang off of the corner of the bed frame. It’s a striking red that Augusta would appreciate if it were on anyone other than Lotte. On anyone other than Pietà as well.
Pietà quietly closes the door but doesn’t twist the lock. Augusta’s skin prickles at the idea of someone walking in, which is infinitely worse than standing outside of Lotte’s door. It means that they broke through. It means that they’re trespassing.
Pietà’s expression is glacial. The scowl Augusta imagined earlier isn’t there, replaced by lips pressed in a thin line and narrowed eyes. But the rage is palpable, almost distorting the air around them as Pietà drills holes into her with dark, stormy eyes.
“Are you going to speak or are you going to keep wasting my time?” Augusta snarks, her heart rattling in her chest.
She keeps her breathing slow, but the room is compressing as Pietà’s presence fills her personal space despite the distance.
“You’re one to talk,” Pietà sneers. “We made plans for me to pick you up after practice so we could spend New Year’s Eve together. I waited two hours at the restaurant for you to arrive.”
“It must have slipped my mind,” Augusta bites as she glares at Pietà. “There are just so many better things to do.”
Pietà arches a sculpted brow. “Like drinking cheap booze with people that don’t even like you?”
Augusta almost jolts at the statement, but Pietà is just fucking with her as usual. Gnashing her teeth, Augusta strides forward. “If that’s all, I’m heading back.”
Pietà blocks her path. “You’re not.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Augusta asks, attempting to pass through the side. But Pietà widens her stance and leaves no openings. “Don’t make me push you.”
“I’ll scream,” Pietà threatens. “How would your bandmates react to you assaulting someone in one of their bedrooms? It would worsen your already poor reputation.”
“My reputation is fine,” Augusta snaps. “They wouldn’t have invited me to this party if they didn’t like me.”
“Is that really what you think?” Pietà questions. She prowls toward Augusta, who steps back as if possessed by a mammalian response to a predator. “Are you such a child that you can’t tell when people only include you to be polite?”
“They’re not like that,” Augusta replies as she backs away. “We’re planning on going on a vacation together.”
“A girl’s night out? How childish.”
“It’s not childish at all,” Augusta protests, but chinks in her armor have begun to form. Pierced by Pietà’s words, her already-existing insecurities are struck. “You wouldn’t get it because the only person who you can get to spend time with is someone you’ve coerced.”
Pietà clicks her tongue. She’s still approaching and Augusta is still maintaining the distance between them. “They’ll rescind their invitation once Lotte finishes speaking with them.”
“They’re not like that,” Augusta repeats, but her mouth is dry and her palms are clammy as doubt fills her like helium in a balloon.
“They are,” Pietà assures. “You don't know what Lotte has been saying behind your back.”
Augusta’s heart stops beating. “What does she say?”
“Well,” Pietà says slowly. “She noticed that you’re not as talented as you used to be and has discussed it with the others so they can decide what to do about it. After all, a group is only as strong as its weakest link.”
“I’m not the weakest link,” Augusta croaks as she frantically rummages through her memories. She recalls her past rehearsals and realizes, with sickening clarity, that the bulk of the mistakes were caused by her.
A note too sharp, a measure skipped, a pause not taken long enough. Every time they needed to start from the beginning, Augusta was the cause.
“Are you telling that to me or yourself?” Pietà questions.
Augusta shakes her head, but she’s hot and cold all over. She doesn’t want to know who she’s saying it to, but it’s not as important as the depth of Lotte’s betrayal. “What — “
“What else has come out of her wicked mouth? Let’s see,” Pietà taps her chin. “For one, she’s realized your deceitful nature. You’re not as cunning as you think you are when choosing what events to participate in. Denying a charity event because it yielded no profit was a poor decision.”
Augusta doesn’t see how it’s a poor decision, but a teenage Augusta would know. Now she’s a series of fragmented memories, weathered like sediment in a river — a victim of time.
Pietà continues to speak. “Denying donations to the children’s hospital is inhumane, but only Lotte had the decency to point it out. Naturally, she had something to say about that, thereby fanning the flames of the fire which was kindled by the straws placed upon the camel’s back.”
“What are the other straws?” Augusta shakily asks.
Pietà extends an arm to play with the ends of Augusta’s hair — curling a strand around her index finger and winding it like a toy. “You’re simply not reliable. Your character is callous and your skill is mediocre. The only thing that allows them to keep you is the fact that you’re one of the founders. They’ll discard you once they find a new guitarist.”
Augusta clenches her fists and wills the tremors wracking through her body to cease, but the amalgamation of fear and insecurity refuses to be abated. “How could you possibly know this?”
Pietà smiles. A genial, gentle thing. The corner of her eyes crinkle as if it were a real smile, but her gaze is sharp. Individually, those traits would be attractive. But in Pietà, they’re patchwork.
She continues forward and places the flat of her hand against Augusta’s chest. She gently pushes Augusta back.
“The same way I know you were bullied as a high school student and were kicked out of your mother's home for trying to assault your little sister. I know everything about you, bambola. Even the things you don’t want to admit.”
The back of Augusta’s knees hit the bed frame.
Pietà cages her, holding the rod of the fame as if hugging her. Augusta’s stomach churns on instinct as Pietà’s scent washes over her like a slow, poisonous gas. It’s sugary sweet as if striving for girlhood instead of womanhood, and Augusta swallows down the bile that creeps into her mouth and burns her esophagus.
“You’re too close,” Augusta croaks as Pietà leans closer and noses Augusta’s fluttering carotid artery.
August can hear her heart beating. It’s as quick as a hummingbird’s wings, sending sorely needed blood to the rest of her body in a desperate attempt at fight or flight. Neither yields good options, so Augusta is left with a pathetic paralysis.
Pietà’s chest expands as she inhales deeply, clearly breathing in Augusta’s scent. “Am I?”
Augusta wonders if she smells sour. Sour from the alcohol that splashed onto her earlier when Tina grabbed her. Sour from sweat. Sour from the fact that the door isn’t locked and anyone could walk in.
Augusta grits her teeth in an attempt to stifle her shaking. Her jaw creaks. “You need to get away. What if — "
“What if Lotte sees?” Pietà finishes as her nose ghosts up Augusta’s jaw. It settles at her temple and digs into it. Pietà’s breath is hot and moist against Augusta’s ear.
“Yeah.”
“You already know what she’d think. You know her better than I do, after all.”
The words slither into Augusta’s ear like a centipede. The leg-like syllables scrap against the canal and pinchers sink into her eardrum. Her heart has already reached its quickest tempo, but still. It accelerates.
“Tell me,” Pietà goads as if speaking to a resistant child. “Tell me what they would think.”
Her hands trail up Augusta’s arms. The skin is littered with goosebumps as primitive fear bursts throughout her like a firecracker. Pietà clutches Augusta’s shoulders and brings her close for a proper hug. She cards her fingers through Augusta’s hair and tucks Augusta’s head in the crook of her shoulder, where her sickening perfume is most pungent.
“I don’t wanna,” Augusta rasps.
“Don’t shake,” Pietà reprimands. “You’re better than that.”
Augusta isn’t. The hot and cold flashes rushing through her intensify. The only way to feel better is for Pietà to leave, but Pietà has sunk her talons into every part of Augusta. Her job, her bandmates, and her body.
“Tell me,” Pietà repeats. Voice harder. Voice sharper. “How Lotte would react to you abusing her trust by having sex in her bed.”
Augusta swallows down the remnants of her saliva. Her mouth is dry as if stuck with cotton, but the words come out in staccato bursts. “She’d be furious and disgusted.”
“What would she do?” Pietà prods.
“She’d kick me out of the band.”
“Then?”
Syllables refuse to slip past Augusta’s teeth. She opens her mouth and closes it, catching a few strands of Pietà’s bleached hair, and tries to usher out a syllable, but nothing comes out. It’s as if she’s in the desert. Scorched and dried out.
Pietà clicks her tongue. “Then you’ll be left with nothing.”
Then she’ll become nothing.
“You understand now, don’t you?” Pietà asks. Her fingers trail down Augusta’s back and tease the waistband of her jeans.
Augusta doesn’t reply. She holds her breath, refusing to inhale more of Pietà’s perfume, and wishes she could cover her ears to block out Pietà’s treacherous words. Clarity strikes, reminding Augusta that the only reason she hates them is because they’re true. She’s weaker than she was when she was a bullied teenager. She’s smaller than when she was an actual child.
Sighing, Pietà draws back. She releases her grip on Augusta. “I’ll see you outside.”
With quick, perfunctory steps, Pietà crosses the room, opens the door, and disappears down the wall. Her heels striking the wooden floors are gunshots, piercing Augusta. But they taper off as she leaves, relieving Augusta of her presence.
The door is left wide open, so Augusta can’t collapse like her jelly-like legs want her to. She stumbles forward, twists the lock, and shuts the door. She leans against the hood, stomach twisting and turning like a child throwing a tantrum, and swallows a meager amount of saliva down her dry throat.
Fear has burned the alcohol out of her system, but there’s no time to soothe herself with another drink. She clenches her fists to give herself a semblance of control. She’s still shaking, but she can make it less obvious.
Augusta fishes her phone out of her pocket. She winces at the series of missed calls and ignored texts, a testament to Pietà’s ire, and shuts it off to use the black screen as a mirror. Her heart drops and she quickly combs her fingers through her hair to wipe away Pietà’s touch, but the scent of Pietà lingers like mildew.
She can’t do anything about her sickly pale face, but at least her excuse for leaving will be more plausible.
Like a baby deer taking its first steps, Augusta makes her way back to the living room. The party has picked up and more people are dancing, but her bandmates are still chatting on the couch.
They perk up as they notice her approaching, but the smile on their faces dies once their eyes successfully rove over Augusta’s form.
“I don’t feel good,” Augusta croaks. Her heart throbs, hammering against her ribs, and she can’t stop her hand from clutching her twisting gut. “I’m gonna head home early.”
“Do you want one of us to take you back?” Nicole asks. Her brows are puckered together. The space between them is creased. “You don’t look well.”
Augusta shakes her head and lies. “I already called a taxi.”
“Do you want us to sit outside with you?” Lotte asks as if Augusta can’t take care of herself. “The party can handle us being out for a bit.”
“Nah, it’s good,” Augusta says. She forces a wry smile to curve her lips. “I think I just drank too much.”
“If you say so,” Tina replies, voice low and concerned.
Augusta turns around before they can push, but annoyance bubbles in her chest as she walks away. Her bandmates are too complacent in her erratic behavior. Then she hears a flurry of whispers and the irritation in her chest blooms into full-blown resentment.
They’re trash-talking her instead of being concerned. They were just waiting for her to disappear to reveal their true colors, no doubt a result of Lotte’s meddling. But for them to be so easily influenced is a reflection of already existing mistrust, which sickens Augusta further.
Augusta’s nostrils still burn from the scent of Pietà’s perfume. She breathes from her mouth instead, inhaling the humidity of the party. She’ll throw up if she doesn’t.
Pietà quickly comes into sight. She’s staring up at the sky, face twisted in a scowl as she holds a cigarette between her index and middle finger. Relief filters through Augusta slightly. The tobacco will mask Pietà’s scent.
“Hi,” Augusta manages once she’s closer to Pietà.
Pietà doesn’t twist her head to greet her. She acknowledges Augusta with a few curt words and begins to walk. “We’re going to a hotel.”
“Which one?” Augusta asks, jogging to catch up.
Pietà doesn’t reply. Wrath palpates the frigid air — beating its dead heart. She puffs at her cigarette as she walks. Smoke clouds dissipate in the wind quickly, whisked into nothingness. The silence, unnatural as a green sky, makes Augusta’s skin itch.
“You’re dressed warmly,” she says after a beat. “I bet the cigarette is also keeping you warm, huh? I left my pack at Lotte’s place and — “
“You’re grating my ears,” Pietà cuts sharply.
Augusta presses her lips into a thin line. It isn’t that she wants to have a conversation. It’s just that the silence is too painful. But she isn’t going to persist. She might make Pietà more upset and that would worsen what is to come.
After a few turns, the hotel comes into view. The walls are cream colored and large, glaring red text sits above the entrance. It’s illuminated by the parking lot lights and Augusta has to squint to read its name.
Augusta’s jaw drops once she processes the words. “The Hampton Inn.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” Pietà asks. Finally, she twists her neck to look at Augusta. An eyebrow is arched. “I figured something of your caliber would be fitting.”
“There weren't any better hotels in the area in other words,” Augusta says.
Pietà sniffs. She takes a final drag of her cigarette and then tosses it to the side.
They jaywalk across the street, ignoring the odd car out at 3 am that honks at them angrily, and pass through the entrance of the hotel. Pietà quickly books a room. She receives the key and soon enough they’re in a room.
“The bed looks nice,” Augusta says, lingering in the doorway. “Why don’t you sleep? It’s pretty late.”
“Usually, I find your attempts at evasion to be charming. This is not one of those times.”
Pietà’s hand darts forward and she curls her fingers around Augusta’s wrist, yanking her into the room. She kicks the door shut and it locks automatically. Augusta lowers her head, keeping her eyes trained on their shoes as Pietà guides her to the bed.
She seats Augusta on the edge of the mattress and postures before her. Pietà cups the side of Augusta’s head and tilts her head upward. Augusta peers to the side, but Pietà is a blight in her peripheral vision.
“You disappointed me today,” Pietà says. Her voice is thin. “You agreed to celebrate my birthday with me and didn’t. You chose people who don’t enjoy your company over me.”
Augusta grits her teeth. Pietà’s hands are soft and smooth. The scent of tobacco clings to it. It overwhelms the perfume no doubt sprayed at her wrists, but Augusta can still smell the saccharine scent.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Pietà demands as she shakes Augusta’s head. “You’re not allowed to act guilty when you’re the one who wronged me.”
“I’m not guilty,” Augusta snaps. She drags her eyes back to Pietà’s face. Her stomach flips at the lips curled in a sneer and the burning brown of Pietà’s iris.
“What are you then? You’re certainly not happy.”
“I’m annoyed that you’re wasting my time.”
Pietà barks a laugh. “You do that to plenty of others. Nicole is especially relieved that you left.”
“Don’t say that,” Augusta hisses, but the sickness that she thought was soothed from the short walk returns at full force.
“Did you think she was free of Lotte’s influence?” Pietà asks.
She steps forward and brings Augusta’s face to her soft chest. The stench of tobacco is more prominent, but her perfume weaves between the fumes and Augusta forces herself to focus on the fingers passing through her hair. They tug at her scalp and untangle knots Augusta didn’t realize had formed.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Augusta grumbles.
“I agree.”
Pietà fists Augusta’s the roots of Augusta’s hair and yanks her head back. Augusta grits her teeth as a curious throb flutters between her legs.
“That’s not gonna be enough to make me like you,” slips past Augusta's teeth without her permission.
Pietà pauses. She raises a brow. “So it’s something you enjoy?”
“Hell no,” Augusta spits, but her heart races and her head spins.
This is the first time Pietà has been rough with her. Augusta should be queasy, just like the first time Pietà laid hands on her. Instead, her blood is audible as it rushes through her veins and she’s lightheaded.
Pietà had to have ruined her. There’s no other way she would be like this.
“I guess we’ll be putting it to the test, then,” Pietà says as she shoves Augusta against the bed.
Augusta crawls away, possessed by primitive prey instinct. She ends up in the center of the mattress with Pietà following after her. The heels of Augusta’s sneakers dig into the mattress as Pietà wedges herself between Augusta’s legs.
Pietà looms over her. The ceiling light above them haloes her head and rays slip between the frazzled strands of her hair. Augusta’s head sinks into the pillow and she closes her eyes. She breathes in through her nose and imagines that she’s away. Away with her bandmates and eating ice cream as they trash on terrible movies.
But the scent of tobacco is strong. And there is still residual perfume, so Augusta breathes through her mouth instead.
Pietà tangles her fingers in Augusta’s hair, forcing her presence upon her, and grabs the roots. She cranes Augusta’s head, then breathes into Augusta’s ear with a hot and moist breath. “Who knew that my bambola would be so disgusting?”
“Don’t call me that,” Augusta grits through clenched teeth. Her jaw aches.
“I’m only speaking the truth,” Pietà taunts. “You’re cold and manipulative. You’re untrustworthy and unreliable. You’re an ingrate for refusing the one person who accepts for your horrible self.”
She presses a feather-light kiss to Augusta’s cheek, as if they’re schoolgirl lovers instead, then nibbles on the lobe of Augusta’s ear. Heat swirls in Augusta’s gut as she loathes, not for the first time, her sensitive body.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Pietà isn’t lifting her tank top and unclasping her bra. There is no strike of cold air against her exposed breasts. There isn’t a wet tongue against her throat with teeth scraping her skin.
There isn’t —
“Fuck,” Augusta swears once Pietà latches onto a nipple.
Pietà swirls her tongue around the bud. Her lips trail to the side and catch a bit of skin between her teeth to suck viciously. Pain mixed with pleasure bolts up Augusta’s spine. Her clit throbs as she feels herself getting wet.
“Don’t leave marks,” Augusta hisses, resisting the urge to clamp her thighs shut. It would only clasp Pietà. Worse, it would let Pietà know it feels good. “I don’t want people seeing.”
“Then don’t dress like a slut,” Pietà retorts cooly as she moves onto the other breast.
Augusta can feel the capillaries burst, forming an array of hickies. A field of violets, the marks of mutilation, and the branding of ownership.
Pietà’s hands trail down Augusta’s toned stomach and burn her skin in their wake. Imaginary blisters form, but absolution arrives once those hands land on Augusta’s jeans. Pietà deftly unbuttons them as if skinning an animal, then hooks a finger in the waistband and tugs them down Augusta’s legs. She pauses briefly to yank off Augusta’s sneakers, which are tossed over Pietà’s shoulder.
She leans back, departing from Augusta’s mottled breasts, to throw the jeans to the side of the room. Augusta’s eyes crack open and she scowls at Pietà. Her tank top is raised above her chest and she’s wearing her good panties. Parties require good panties, but Pietà doesn’t deserve to see Augusta in them.
“You’re dressed like you knew something like this would happen,” Pietà says as she snaps the waistband. “You really are dirty.”
“I’m not,” Augusta grouses.
Pietà traces the edge of the fabric and grazes Augusta’s inner thigh. She drags her index finger across Augusta’s clothed slit and smirks. “You’re wet.”
“Fuck you,” Augusta spits.
“Don’t you get tired of saying the same thing every time?” Pietà asks as she gently brushes Augusta’s clothed clit and elicits a miserable shiver. “You say you hate this, but you achieve an orgasm every time.”
“Not because I want to,” Augusta sneers.
“If you really didn’t want it, you could just leave,” Pietà says. She raises her hands, freeing Augusta of her touch, and raises her brows. “Go on. Do it. Save yourself from being raped.”
Augusta gnashes her teeth. She narrows her eyes at Pietà, whose smile grows wider. Augusta wishes there was lipstick on her pearly, white teeth so she could mock Pietà for her sloppiness. But Pietà is infallible.
“I can’t and you know that.”
“There is always a choice. You’re merely choosing the one that makes you feel good.”
Pietà finally slides Augusta’s panties down her legs. Augusta shivers at the burst of cold air that attacks her. It wouldn’t be so cold if she wasn’t wet, but Pietà is good at what she does and Augusta is only a woman.
“It doesn’t feel good,” Augusta denies. “It makes me feel sick to my stomach.”
“Your body says otherwise,” Pietà says. She flicks Augusta’s clit, sending an odd tendril of pain mixed with pleasure, and Augusta’s breath hitches. Pietà notices. “It’s disgusting how perverted you are.”
Augusta wasn’t before. But then Pietà ruined her.
Pietà descends before Augusta can retort. She swipes her tongue against Augusta’s clit. It’s soft, smooth, wet, and warm and Augusta cannot help the garbled moan that slips past her teeth. She’s able to detect that Pietà is going through the alphabet to identify which stroke order makes her feel the best, but she’s too busy clenching her jaw to mock Pietà.
Augusta’s nostrils flare as she attempts to soothe her breathing. Her stomach trembles, her core tight, and to Augusta’s mortification, her leg begins to shake. Pietà barely did anything and Augusta is already coming undone at the seams. Each lick loosens a thread and when Pietà sucks her clit, she unravels.
Head foggy and swimming with pleasure, Augusta squeezes her eyes shut. Her skin burns and she’s on fire, but instead of saliva dousing it, it only adds fuel to the flames. She curls her toes as tidal wave after a tidal wave of pleasure attacks her.
It fills her lungs. It fills her nostrils, and she’s drowning. Sweat dribbles down her temple despite her inactivity and after a loud moan from her jaw involuntarily relaxing, too overwhelmed, Augusta’s knuckles fly to her mouth. She clamps down on the bone like a dog, but it does little to suppress the whines and whimpers Pietà is wrenching out of her.
“Dirty,” Pietà rasps after swirling her tongue against Augusta’s clit. “You say you hate this but you’re putty in my hands.”
“I’m not,” Augusta manages. Her voice is muffled from biting her knuckles. “I’m gonna be sick. You need to stop — “
“I should. You’re not worthy of being touched.”
“Then don’t. Stop touching me. Let me go. Leave.” Augusta begs.
“You’re not worthy of being touched,” Pietà says slowly. Her lips are shiny with Augusta’s traitorous juices. “But you’re worthy of punishment.”
Diving down once more, Pietà devours Augusta in a whirlwind of tongue. Augusta’s leg shakes harder and a metallic tang bursts against her taste buds. Augusta barely registers the pain of breaking skin, but she’s cognizant to recall that her hands are the most essential part of her.
If she can’t play the guitar, she’s nothing.
She relaxes her jaw, allowing her knuckles to slip free, but with nothing to ground her, she releases a cacophony of ugly, desperate moans. Chokes and gasps and words that beg for Pietà for something she doesn’t understand herself.
She wants Pietà to stop. She wants to keep feeling good. She wants to be touched. She doesn’t want it to be Pietà touching her.
When Pietà’s teeth graze her clit in a motion that should be painful, Augusta snaps. Her thoughts crash to a halt as her body spasms. In the jackhammer of her orgasm, where she’s suffocated by pleasure, she ceases to exist.
Pietà’s soft tongue continues to swipe at her, wringing out every last drop of Augusta’s self-respect. Once her climax has ended, Augusta stares blankly at the ceiling. She breathes heavily and counts the spots in her vision as her brain slowly pieces itself back together, one tendril at a time.
“My, what a mess you’ve made,” Pietà comments as she pulls away. She adjusts her glasses and Augusta doesn’t need to look to know that Pietà is admiring her handiwork. “The hotel staff is going to have fun cleaning the sheets.”
Then Augusta feels it: the cold, wet fabric beneath her; the stickiness between her thighs.
Gut churning, she rushes out of the bed. She reaches the bathroom with one clumsy step after another. Her hand slaps the wall, missing the light switch, but she flips it on with her second attempt. A dull ache rolls up her arm, but she barely registers it.
She lurches to the sink and squeezes the edge of the counter to hold herself up as she stares at her reflection. Wide, bloodshot eyes. Tangled, disheveled hair. Cheeks flushed with shameful exertion. Skin shiny from sweat.
And a plethora of marks across her chest. Dark bruises are scattered across her breasts. They glisten from residual saliva that has been hydrated by sweat. A fully formed bead glides down the valley between Augusta’s breasts. It slithers past her navel and then detours down the crevice of her pelvis.
She refuses to allow her eyes to drift lower.
Disgust surges through her veins. The high of the orgasm has long ended, leaving her with deep-rooted shame that has penetrated her spirit.
Mutilated. She has been mutilated by Pietà. But most importantly, she has mutilated herself.
She could have walked away. She could have pushed Pietà away. Maybe even ram her fist in Pietà’s smarmy face and break her glasses. Shatter her nose and leave her deformed. But Augusta didn’t.
The woman in the mirror shudders. She hugs herself and Augusta can’t stand it. Lips curling in a sneer, she rears her fist back and shoves her fist into the mirror. It cracks beneath the blow, and she does it again and again. Sharp pain shoots up her arm, worsened as she agitates the bite on her knuckles, but she hates it.
She hates who she is. She hates what she has become.
Shards clatter into the sink, leaving behind the concrete wall the mirror rests on. Augusta freezes before she can make contact with it. It’s one thing to cut her hand. It’s another to break her bones through stupidity.
Breathing heavily, Augusta catches her fractured reflection in the surviving, jagged edges of the mirror. She’s reflected multiple times as if staring into a spider’s eyes.
“Are you done throwing your tantrum?” Pietà asks. Her voice is barely audible past Augusta’s heavy panting. “Clean up after yourself once you’re finished being a child. Don’t inconvenience the hotel staff too much.”
After a few footsteps muffled by the carpet, the door opens and then clicks shut.
But Pietà has left behind the stench of her tobacco and perfume and the ghost of her lingering touches. There’s a sticky mess between Augusta’s thighs and a grotesque amount of bruises on her chest.
There’s suffocating shame, dirty disgust, and a righteous refusal to process it.
Augusta rams her fist in the remaining fragments of the mirror and wonders when she'll break.