Suffocate

Chapter 12

Amy Schraudner, is her name. An older woman in her thirties who tries to look like she's still that nineteen-year-old beach babe. She dresses like any moment is a chance for her to drop her panties, which no doubt has been bleached on the daily occasion.

Amy is not at all a role model for anyone. In fact, she's one of the worst; she looks up to my mother.

My mom met Amy a couple years back. Instantly, they became partners. As in: Amy deals, Mom pays.

Amy is a lot of things. She's that hoe on the corner that wears her jean shorts a little too high, meaning they are far too short and ride up her asscrack. Her basic attire consists of underwear that is see-through, and a thin, cropped tank. Of course, her nipples have to be the main attraction. It's either her long, bleached blonde hair and tanned skin, with her patch of freckles that cover her body, or her wildly feminine appearance. If she didn't do drugs, she'd look much more appealing to the eye, that way I wouldn't use her as an insult. But, considering she does drugs and sells drugs to my mother, I have no patience for any of it.

Then, it all comes down to this: How the fuck do I know Amy Schraudner?

I was sixteen when I met Amy. Mom had taken me over to her house so that I could meet her new friend. Of course, sixteen-year-old me knew that Mom's friends would be a handful of people from a bad crowd, and indeed, Amy seemed to fit the description.

When I met Amy, though, she looked better, much better than how she probably looks now. A couple of years can and can't do a lot to a person; but, all I know is that Amy was younger than my mom and maybe just as pretty, if I ever complimented my mother. Surprisingly, I thought that Amy was appealing. I didn't find her interesting at all while I hung around her house, waiting for Mom to finish duping it up. But as a young guy, her appearance tended to attract me more and more. I wondered if it was all the drugs in the air, if I was involuntarily doing them, too.

There were several times when I would be sitting opposite my mom and Amy on the couch, I could never remove my eyes from her sweaty chest, or the shadows between her thighs as her skirt did little to cover up anything. Amy often caught me, but she would send me a knowing smile and wink at me, her blue eyes bright, and pupils blown wide. I would tense up and flick my gaze towards my mom, hoping she wouldn't witness me ogling at her friend. She had always been so caught up in whatever blunt she was rolling and chopping whatever chalky white there was, to notice.

The first time Mom caught me, though, she smacked me hard across the face.

"What do you think you're doing?!" she hissed at me. Mom grabbed me by my collar and shook me in her grip. "How dare you? You know that is wrong!"

It really was not hard for me to figure out what my parents thought was right or wrong. So when I showed up one day, unannounced, at Amy's doorstep, she led me inside with that same smile: All white teeth, with bright pink lipstick in place. Those same blue eyes looked at me, as if all they ever could do was focus solely on the person they were eyeing.

Amy seemed nicer than my mom, being the only other woman I had ever really known or hung around. We never spoke individually, but it was always eye contact between us.

We were alone that day, and for once, all of her equipment was put away. Her living room was clean and there was only the faint smell of marijuana, but I was able to ignore it. Amy's long, manicured fingernails always crept on my skin, like little thorns, as she caressed my arms and back. She would sit me down on her sofa and smile at me again.

I didn't know why, but I was able to reveal the smallest smiles to her. There was nothing to smile about, yet, there I was, smiling back at this woman that was smiling down at me.