Be Careful the Words You Speak

The hiss of the cigarette filled the absence of her scream. Most people reacted when the tip of a cigarette grazed them, let alone when the glowing tip seared its way through top layer of skin. Petra hadn't wanted to waste a cigarette. Nor did she want the pain to end quickly. 

Instead, she had taken a dollar bill from Darla's purse, a form of torture all on its own, and wrapped it around her fleshy wrist. 

"It's supposed to be a cigar, but where would the poetic justice be in that?" 

Petra pulled the cigarette back as the pain registered on Darla's face. The creaminess of her skin lost as she blanched, her features contorted better suiting her face to match her insides. The darkness of her muddied pupils matching the void where kindness tried to live. As Petra took a drag from the cigarette, Darla's agony filled the room. 

"A slow roasting situation, isn't it?" Petra asked as she flicked her ashes over a ceramic ashtray. Hand painted for the BEST STEPMOM EVER, the writing was almost as faded as the memory. After Jackson left, Darla fell out of touch with her stepchildren. There was a hole left in his stead, one that should have been easily filled by Aaron. At least that's how Petra understood it. 

"That's what you wanted right?" She asked, flicking the cigarette once more. "To plant hateful seeds of doubt and contempt until they bloomed so great, so big, they pushed us apart?" 

Petra returned the cigarette to her lips, her eyes boring into Darla's as her pupils rolled down, tucking the whites back under the lid. They locked into Petra's. Emotions thrashed behind the brown orbs. Chocolate brown or shit brown, it didn't matter, Petra was surprised they hadn't melted yet. Anger grew as realization seeped in. 

"This is all because you got Aaron smoking again?" 

Petra shook her head. Her hair swaying as her head moved back and forth. Still locked into Darla's stare, Petra exhaled smoke as her body sank to the ground. On her knees, in front of Darla, Petra took a final drag of the cigarette. The smoke swirled in her mouth as she lifted her ass from the backs of her feet. Only the cherry was visible in the palm of her hand. The red hot tip grazed along Darla's neck; it hurt but not as much as the butt did outing itself against her skin. Petra's fingers tangled themselves into her short, cheaply dyed hair and pulled Darla's mouth to hers. 

Her tongue pried open the pursed lips before her, smoke spilling out around them. Darla coughed as the dirty air permeated her mouth, with it, Petra's tongue. Lips and saliva dragged as Petra pulled away. Where the slick trail of passion had been was now the stickiness of bindings. Petra knew what tape felt like across the most sensitive parts of her skin, her lips, but never on her face. It would be interesting to see what happened when it was ripped off. 

"Aaron has nothing to do with this," Petra said, resting back on her heels. "You swore you weren't jealous. That you didn't want Aaron. After all you're the one that kicked him out. That left him. You swore to anyone who would listen that you didn't care what he did. But you've always cared about me, haven't you?" 

Darla's breath caught. A slight gasp escaped. The fingertips of death dug into her stomach clawing at the waistband of her jeans. Nothing but Death itself could be that cold. Her skin frozen along with her thoughts. 

Petra dropped the cigarette next to the fallen bill. "We'll come back to that later," she noted to herself. "Your concern with my smoking habits, my living arrangements, my ability to - how did you say it? Suck dick for vacations?" The skin beneath her eyes pulled she smirked. 

"So crass for such a chaste woman. . ." Petra's voice trailed off to the sound of Darla's jeans crumpling on the floor. 

"I wanted to put it all out there, in the open." Her eyes trailed down Darla's mass to her pubic region. A cave of hidden wonders behind the curtain. "Really get my fingers into it and dig out the truth."

Petra kept her eyes forward. The soft folds of Darla's body turned down like her outfits, her essence. Downtrodden. She was sure when she did locate the tops of Darla's underwear they would be old, worn, their only personality the small holes where life had already escaped long ago. 

Her fingers hovered about the tape. In a different space, Petra would have preferred being bound and gagged, but Darla wasn't like that. Oh no, Darla was a PB&J on Wonderbread, with no crust. At least as far as Petra understood it. Darla had created this moment, crafted it with every comment, every snide remark, every text. Aaron had talked to her, warned her, pleaded with her, but she hadn't listened; hadn't stopped her obsession with Petra, only deepened it. Kept on it with it, like a dog with a bone. 

If Darla was one thing, in Petra's experience, a bitch was it. One with a bone the perfect size for her to choke on. 

"Maybe this will be the head that gets me a one way ticket to Hell. Not quite the vacations you think I get, but from what I hear, there's a special place in Hell for women like you - you know, the ones who don't support other women? Maybe I'm like you now. But either way, Darla Baby, I'm here for you. To support you, to show you exactly what it's like to be with me and how right you are about my abilities."

The sound of metal clanked through the air, cutting through Petra's laugh. Darla could struggle all she wanted. Petra had used these chains countless times before. If she nor Aaron could break them, Dumpling-Like Darla definitely could not.

Coldness seeped in as Petra's fingers worked their way under her fleshy stomach. She had been doing good with the weight loss. She wasn't going to get her body back, she knew that. But it was 21 years in the making and she finally had her pre-pregnancy weight in sight. Just a little more gut-busting to go. She had thought it was a little more to go . . . now as the coldness moved up and down her paunch she wondered if the end was further in sight than she thought.  Aaron would say something stupid, something about the positives. Something Petra and he did together . . . something like least she had enough insolation to fight against the cold.

Darla must have been right about her not having a heart, or at least a working one. Her hands were like something from a dead person that had sat in the freezer too long. A scream stifled itself in Darla's throat as  Petra's fingers dipped inside the waistband of her underwear. It wasn't natural for anyone to be that cold. They did say that smoking reduced circulation. She may look fit, with her hiking, her yoga, and her balanced diets. But she smoked. 

Darla ignore the tingling as Petra's icy fingers pressed into the skin above her pubic bone, no doubt leaving a trail of stink. The cold, numbing touch took Darla out of the moment. The contrast from the antagonizing burn. It could be anyone touching her. Even though she hated who it was, that she couldn't seem to do anything to stop it, it had been years since anyone touched her like that. 

Aaron thought it was wrong of her to have said something, especially in front of their daughter, but Darla had been right. She was on her knees, servicing Darla. This cold blooded whore had gotten Aaron back to smoking. He says its him. That he liked 'em. That he'd have his one a day. That he was the one who always had cigarettes, that Petra only borrowed his when they were drunk. 

If she was drunk now, it was on power alone. Chills followed her finger tips as Petra traced the outline of her slit. The place where no woman had touched her; where she wasn't comfortable with anyone truly exploring. They moved closer. Darla strained her nose for the rotten smell of tobacco. Anything to distract her from the quest Petra's fingers were embarking on. 

Petra was the one smoking; using the same fingers that were now exploring her; the same that held her filthy cigarette against money Darla's daughter gave her for groceries. Darla hadn't even had the chance to put that money in the bank yet, to put it toward her credit card. The money from the state and the child support from Aaron covered the groceries, but 21 year olds should have to contribute in someway. The girl wanted to be home with Darla, they weren't just mother/daughter. They were friends, roommates.

Darla ignored the pressure as Petra's fingers housed themselves inside her. She didn't want this. Hadn't wanted this. She wasn't obsessed with Petra - she didn't care about her new apartment, the one Aaron helped her move into. She didn't give two fucks about what the girl did with her whore mouth, whether it was smoking or sucking dick. Darla cared about Aaron. Aaron who stopped using and selling because of her, the one who worked two jobs to support them, the one who showed up time and time again even when she kicked him out, when she had thought it could work with Jackson. Aaron who . . . SHOULD BE HERE ANY MINUTE!

They had plans. The two of them. Not him and Petra, but him and Aaron. They were going over their daughter's financial aid for her last year of school. Darla could do it, could wait for Aaron to come in those doors and take his bitch to the pound where she belonged. Then they could do the financial stuff for their daughter. How quickly her last year of college had approached. The end of her childhood, of child support. The tightness in Darla's chest grew deeper.

Petra had met their daughter at a party one night. Her ex-in-laws. They hit it off, she didn't even know Aaron, just his stupid brother. They became friends when she was just 17! Petra the home-wrecking ped. As if she had the same life experience at 27 that Darla, approaching 50 far too fast, or Aaron did as he trudged into some mid-life crisis. No. She had no business befriending her daughter. She had less business blowing her ex-husband for vacations or whatever novelty books she pointed out to him. 

He had been mad at Darla for saying it, but even now, there was his bitch, his whore on her knees. Running her tongue up Darla's thigh. It was impossible to ignore. The wetness, combined with her deadman's fingers. The sensations ran rampant inside Darla. Obviously she had a lot of practice. Nothing Petra did hurt her, it was all gentle. Soft caresses. Darla's rage burned. She would be damned to like this. To enjoy anything this bitch did as she violated her. No matter how much it reminded Darla of when Aaron used to be tender with her; when things between them were still warm and intimate.

As if it wasn't personal enough, Petra stole money from Darla's purse - she really had to figure out how she was going to pay off her credit card. Technically it was her mother's but if it got paid no one would know. She needed a day at the spa. It wasn't like she could afford to drop those kinds of dollars - then she burned it. 

BURNED it, and Darla's arm. It would probably blister. If she was lucky Darla would be able to get assigned to fill in on lunch duty and make a WC claim against the school system. Then again, she could always press charges. Sue the shit out of Petra and Aaron. See how many vacations they would take then. How many books he could buy her affections with . . . Darla coughed, or tried to through the tape. She had been lost so deeply in her own thought, the wave of pleasure almost drowned her when Petra's tongue swirled itself between her lips, around her clit. Aaron, she thought, better come before I do, or so help me God.