and her bed sores treated. She also needed her breakfast. Lord she was starving. That frozen pizza Pudge had baked last night hadn’t even come close to satisfying her. But Pudge had disappeared into the bedroom before she’d had the chance to ask for anything else to eat. And when she’d called out, she’d been ignored. She should punish the ungrateful shit for that one. What if there had been an emergency? What then?
With disgust, she set the remote on the bed tray. Lately, her sweet child had been acting like a spoiled, ungrateful brat. Pudge needed to learn a lesson. If she could climb out of this bed she’d wallop Pudge’s ass so goddamn hard the ingrate wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. Yes. That’s what was needed around here. A good old-fashioned reminder about respect.
But the bed had become her self-imposed asylum. Her legs could no longer hold her body weight. Hell, she’d become so blessedly huge she couldn’t even wipe her own ass anymore. Roles had been reversed.
Aside from Pudge’s strange mood swings, Dorothy loved how life had turned out for her. She ate, slept and watched TV whenever she wanted, as much as she wanted, without having to answer to a pig bastard of a husband who’d expected nothing but perfection. She’d shown Rick, though. If only he wasn’t dead—at least for just a couple of minutes—she’d love for him to gaze upon his wife now.
“Fuck you and a dress size number 2,” Dorothy sang to her dead husband, then reached for the remote. She’d blast Pudge’s ass out of bed. When the volume had been raised to the point Dorothy worried she’d blow the old TV’s speakers, Pudge finally opened the bedroom door.
Dorothy hit the MUTE button, drowning out a commercial for feminine hygiene. “There you are. I’ve been waiting on you all morning. I’m hungry. But I need you to change my bag and the gauze on my sores first.”
Instead of answering, Pudge went to the kitchen.
“Son of a...” Dorothy muttered, then reached for the remote again. She thought about giving the room another sound blast as a way of showing her irritation, but lowered the volume instead. Why ruin the TV? Besides, she thought she heard Pudge rummaging around the fridge.
Minutes later, Pudge pushed through the kitchen door and stood at the threshold holding a glass of orange juice. Anticipating the sugary sweet burst of flavor on her tongue and how delicious bacon and eggs would taste with the cold juice, Dorothy licked her lips. “I’ll have my eggs scrambled, today. Four should do it, along with three pieces of toast and six slices of bacon.” When Pudge didn’t move, she motioned impatiently toward the bed tray. “Come on now. Gimme the juice before it turns warm, then get to work on my breakfast. I’m so damn hungry, changing the bag and gauze can wait.”
Pudge moved into the shadows of what had once been the dining room. Years ago, the room had been used for parties and holiday celebrations, but now served as storage space for medical supplies and food. Not that Dorothy cared. She’d hated all that celebrating and holiday nonsense. The extra work, the extra mouths to feed...the extra beatings.
Her left eye twitched—an infuriating reflex she hadn’t been able to shake over the past fourteen years. Not when the memories tried to settle in and take over like they were now. Not even when she knew, personally, that Rick was dead and buried. All over the place.
“Bring me my goddamn juice,” she demanded while rubbing her eye with the back of her hand, and at the same time rubbing the old phantom bruises from her face. There had been so many. Cuts, broken bones, black and blue marks. She raised both hands and no longer rubbed, but scrubbed. She scrubbed the memories, the filthy images, the face of the man she’d once called husband. Breathing hard, her cheeks overflowed into her palms reminding her that she wasn’t his skinny punching bag anymore.
Rick rested
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