Womb of a Beast (Lesbian Stories)

Chapter One

"Alma is the name of an obedient girl," her mother drawls and Alma stares at the carpet, knees hurting.

"Are you a good girl?" her mother asks.

"Yes, mother," she replies hoarsely, lungs filled with the mixed smoke of incense and opium. It makes her head dizzy and her stomach sick but she doesn't dare show a sign of discomfort. She stares down at the plush red carpet with vanilla swirls, taking shallow breaths.

Her mother falls quiet and Alma waits.

"I suppose you're right. You're better than your siblings at this point. Much more quiet," her mother muses.

Alma stays quiet and lowers her body until her lips are pressing the carpet. It is soft against her lips and her mother laughs.

"Alma, my good girl, my very own prodigy," her mother croons and Alma refrains from jumping when her mother weaves her fingers through her hair, nails digging into her scalp and making her eyes smart. Her mother yanks her hair, pulling her head so they're looking at each other and Alma bites her tongue. Her mouth is filled with the taste of blood.

They stare at each other. It's like looking in a distorted mirror. She shares her mother's dark umber brown skin, marigold eyes, and plump lips. Her inky hair and crooked nose, she gets from her father. Her mother smirks and lets go, pushing her away.

"Much better than your siblings," her mother compliments, adding, "Alma, my ugly girl. Quiet and obedient. You may leave me."

Alma nods and pushes herself up from the floor, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress and quickly leaves her mother's den, shutting the door behind her. She presses her hand to her mouth, cupping the blood dripping from her lips and hurries upstairs to the bathroom. She spits in the sink and looks in the mirror.

Her mouth is bloody and there are bruises from where her mother gripped her chin. There are more on her body but she doesn't care to look. There are dark bags under her eyes and she runs a hand down her crooked nose, frowning. Alma turns her head to the side, examining her round cheeks. Her inky black hair is in a braid, a few wisps of hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.

"I am not so ugly," she whispers. She almost believes it.

Her frown deepens and she splashes water on her face, washing away the blood. She spares herself another glance in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. She lingers in the hallway, gathering her thoughts.

Alma smooths the wrinkles from her rusty orange dress and straightens her back, heading to the kitchen. She takes her time, knowing her brothers are there and she has no real desire to converse with them but the door is in there and she needs out of this opium tainted house.