Olivia's Strange Week

One Last Bit of Hope

Last night, I had no energy to go back to my apartment, I dragged my body to the second bed of Carmiña's Bed & Breakfast's room 12 and collapsed there, so exhausted that sleep caught me in seconds.

What wakes me up is not the sound of my alarm clock, nor sunlight shining through the curtains of the window and hitting me in the face. It is my mom, touching herself just a meter next to me, moaning Belinda's name as she makes her bed squeak with her movements.

I stay still, not moving, shutting my eyes and trying to shut my ears as well. How the fuck should I react to this? Not once in my life have I been forced to look at my mother this way. I never caught her rubbing herself when I came from school earlier than expected, I never found a dildo hidden in the drawer of her nightstand. As far as I've ever been aware, my mom wasn't a sexual creature.

And now she's here, masturbating with no care for what's happening around her, with no care for who might be looking. None of it is her, none of it. It's all Belinda, who told her to act like this to torture me further. It is awful and I want nothing to do with this.

I don't hear her climax more than I feel her, through the movements of the bed, which become the movements of the floor, which travel across the distance between us and reaches my bed, making it shake as well.

After that, she goes calmly to sleep, the scent of her fluids thick in the air.

This is my cue to stand up. My feet are shaky, they might give up on me at any moment, but I have to get going eventually. I walk with my eyes closed, careful not to bump my feet into anything. At this point, seeing her naked is nothing compared to what I've witnessed my mother do, but that doesn't mean I'm desensitized, that I have any desire to look at her more.

Blind as a bat, I feel my way towards the bathroom. I know its location because yesterday I went in and threw up on the toilet. Honestly, I'm not sure I won't do it again.

Once inside, I finally allow myself to open my eyes. Brown tiles cover the floor and walls. The smell of soap and shampoo relieves me from the odor of sweat and sex from outside, and I thank god for it. There is a curtain, white and full of flower drawings, separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom, and a red rug to dry your feet with.

Slowly, I undress, throwing all my clothes into a pile next to the toilet. I let freezing water hit me with no resistance, I scrub my body with a sponge until it goes red, keeping it at it for fifteen minutes. But when I get out of the shower, all dripping and shivering, I don't feel any less dirty.

With a towel, I dry myself, scrubbing just as hard, if not harder, than with the sponge. Why won't this sticky sensation in my skin leave? Why can't I remove it?

"Fuck!" I throw the towel down in frustration. It lands with a wet sound next to my clothes. With that, I break into tears. My body slowly hunkers down, and I'm left crying as I hug my knees. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Why had I let this happen? Why hadn't I listened to Emily? Why the fuck hadn't I remembered my mom would be visiting today? I'm an awful daughter. These last two years I've been nothing but a useless glutton, eating away at the money my mom should've been saving, not working a damn second to maintain myself, barely calling to at least give her a reminder that I gave a shit. And the one day she came to visit, the one day she would be vulnerable to Belinda, I'd completely forgotten, I'd let her defenseless against a monster that used her like a fucktoy. What is happening to me now is nothing short of karma.

Still, it fucking sucks.

My sobbing is interrupted by the ringing of the bell. I look at my clothes, dirty and sweaty from yesterday. There is nothing else I can put on, though. I decide to stay here in the bathroom. Why should I attend the door anyways?