Vanilla smoked lies sweetly burn behind Mia’s gaze as she air-brushes her flawless face with her Dinair Media Spa kit purchased from Nieman Marcus, which she bought on sale for only $1450.00. She mists perfume across her neckline and says, “Mildred, will you clasp my necklace? And don’t worry, I’m almost finished getting ready.”

“Yeah sure,” she says while gazing at Mia’s perfection in the mirror, “but I don’t know why you have to get all fixed up, we’re not going out.”

“Well, I may go out. I know this is our night, but I may have a date with Bradford Merrick, the financial titan Bradford Merrick. I know you don’t understand, but I have an image to uphold. I’ve been studying the Anthony Robbins  Ultimate Edge CD series and success should be reflected in one’s appearance. Everything I do, say, every action I take has purpose, and without purpose we are losers. I’ve changed my life for the better: the guys I date are successful, my friends are successful, and I loathe to associate with anyone not on my frequency: the frequency of abundance.”

Mildred feels ugly. Ugly inside and out. Her neck-less skull sits imploded betwixt thick shoulders, a lead anvil hammered into spine, splattering a slight hump across her upper back. A miscreant goth she is, though smart and philosophical. She clasps the necklace and says, “Don’t you think you’re taking this image thing too far? For god’s sake, everyone knows you’re beautiful. You have doctors, lawyers, professors crawling at your feet. I mean Bradford Merrick bought you a corvette and barely knows you, how does that happen? You know the rest of the world doesn’t experience that stuff. And I doubt your interpretation of Anthony Robbins is right.”

“Look Mildred, you’re my sister and I do love you, but I was put on this earth for a reason. Some of us—who are endowed with beauty, intelligence and ability—must take heed of our natural gifts. I can’t help it if men drool over me, it’s not my fault, but I cannot live like the masses. I am blessed. Men are attracted to beauty. Women are attracted to status and wealth. And that’s just the way it is.”

Mildred fantasizes about snatching her necklace tight and asphyxiating her, tying an ossified knot around her cervical vertebrae. It isn’t jealousy, it is principle. To remove that which distorts truth. To destroy that which glorifies the self. To kill that which offends. She studies Mia: low cut blouse yellow as citrus, breasts squished, elephants in bursting shacks, perfect teeth as Jewel once said like white picket fences. She wished she looked like her in some respects, but doesn’t want the shallow baggage that comes with beauty. She and Mia walk into the kitchen to have a drink.

“Singapore Sling Mildred?”

“I thought we were out of cherry brandy.”

“No . . . I poured that low-class tripe you bought down the drain and picked up a bottle of Schladerer Kirschwasser Cherry, it’s made with real Black Forest cherries. It’s decadent my dear. One day I’ll teach you the finer points of taste and sophistication.”

Red ripened pomegranate creeps Mildred’s skin, flushing her in the fires of hatred. Oh that condescending bitch she thought. Twenty-seven years of listening to such attitude hammered the metals of resolve into transparent membranes, though Mia hardly notices, or keeps it to herself. Mildred’s urge to kill becomes unbearable; firestorms of violence churn beneath while the surface remains calm. Suppression becomes impossible to tame.

“A toast Mildred . . . to my fresh new power, to the realization that I am who I’m supposed to be. I feel reborn every second.”

Glasses clink and throats drenched in liquor, Black Forrest cherry oozes their palates—-tantalizing and satisfying.

“Oh my . . . this is so scrumptious,” says Mildred. “The flavor rich like you. You are fucking perfect. You deserve the world. A sense of entitlement I think not; you deserve it all.”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“Jealousy? Why? You really are perfect. It must be nice to have guys fall to their knees everywhere you go. I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m pretty.” She begins crying, salty juices surcharged atop flanged brims, overflowing chubby cheeks, “Do you know what it’s like to have never loved? Do you know how it feels to know you’re hideous? I look like a fucking troll who just crawled out of the sewer. I’m fat. I’m disgusting. My face looks like a genetic experiment gone awry. You don’t know what it’s like to have never had a handsome man tell you how gorgeous you are and make love to you.”

“No . . . but I have seen Oprah talk about it, and it does sound terribly disconcerting.”

Bewildered by her ineptitude and callous demeanor she says, “There’s something else you don’t know about yourself . . . a family secret. Something everyone knows except you.”

“Oh shut up. What? What is it? I hate to tell you, but you cannot upset me. I am impervious to bullshit. I’m a Buchanan to the bone,” says Mia.

Mildred digs a file out of a stack of books and says, “You maybe interested in this. A Buchanan? You were adopted. Not a single drop of Buchanan blood flows in your trailer trash veins. Your real mother was a crack-whore who left you to die in a garbage can. Her last name was Dedeaux, from a long lineage of incest. You come from garbage. And to think my family left their fortune to you—my bloodline family—allowing you to dispense crumbs to me, their real daughter.”

Laughter spurts through Mia’s lips as she hunches over gasping for breath, “Don’t tell me you’ve been holding that ace all these years you stupid bitch. Mother had those false documents drawn up when you were thirteen to give you a sense of belonging. You are the trailer-trash-spawn dug out of a trash bin. Ask our family attorney, he’ll tell you those documents are fake. Everybody knows about it . . . everyone except you.” Molten knives of steely black burns pits of despair through Mildred’s unloved heart—Mia’s words urinated without remorse, she always wins. The doorbell rings. Mia’s face illuminates, “Oh good, it must be Bradford. We’re having dinner at Antoine’s and then off to the Bombay Bicycle Club for Godiva martinis.”

Mildred feels so empty. She cries all her tears; empty wells parched by the blistering sands of sadness. She is belittled, shunned and made to feel stupid. As Bradford and Mia come in the room, she holds a pistol in her hand which remains concealed in her pocket. She craves murder. To pump three rounds in each of their chests. Even better, she wants to kill Bradford on the kitchen floor and make Mia run into the woods like a shivering child, hunt her down and peel meat with molten lead as she begs forgiveness, but resists temptation. She asks, “Bradford, do you have any friends you could fix me up with? They don’t have to be handsome or rich, just someone nice. Someone honest.”

He pukes the stink-eye all over Mia as if insulted, “Hmm . . . I’m sorry Mildred, all my friends are rich and good looking.” They explode in laughter, chuckles splattering across the walls in clitoris-pink streaks. A heaving fulguration of writhing animus churns in Mildred’s innards and the sodden tissues between her and insanity are weakened. Strings of fragility pop and shear, her psyche searing in the cold wet palms of psychoses. She pulls her pants off and drops her dung streaked panties, removes her shirt and stands gloriously naked before them—flat breasts hanging as deflated peaches stuck to ribs with oily sweat. The bulbous whale of woman with 17 round Glock 9mm in one hand and tampon cord in the other truculently rips the blood sopped tampon from vaginal cleft and flings it in Bradford’s face—it sticks like limp-boiled egg noodle, the bottom edge of pull-string curled into his mouth.

“You stupid fucking bitch!” he screams tearing the blood-slug off his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you? This is a five hundred dollar shirt you just ruined.”

A blank stare of bewilderment grinds trenches of disbelief in Mia’s face as frosted blades of cold realization chill her lymphatic system,  juices thicken and nerves shiver as they both stare into the barrel of Mildred’s gun.

“Take your clothes off, both of you. Now, or I will kill you both!” her gun hand twitching in ungoverned sickness and maniacal grin splitting her face. She sits on the kitchen counter, takes a gargantuan swig of Singapore Sling, scoots her unshaven muff to the edge of counter and says, “Fuck me Bradford. Stick it in.”

Unable to attain erection he says, “I can’t. I can’t get it up.”

“You limp-dicked faggot,” she says fingering herself and shreds meat from skull with three bullets, his brains shatter like strings of worms slung onto the wall as Mia is petrified as quivering concrete. His lifeless body flumps to cold floor like languid sac of dead.

“What have you done Mildred? Look what you did you psychopathic bitch!”

Mildred hops off the counter as undulating lard-flaps jiggle, waves of pressured elastic energy gyrate through fat in a nasty spasm. She squats over Bradford’s fractured-skull-smash and squirts a fat stream of urine, washing the blood from casper-boned flesh. She storms forth backing her into a corner while sagging mammary glands glissade against the firmly supple tits protruding from Mia’s chest.

“You get me so hot sis. I want you,” she says holding the pistol against her face. She fondles her sexual organs with sweat glazed fingers; squiggling, squirming, waggling, wiggling and worming across her luscious body. Though Mia would never admit it, she is turned on, much like the sexuality experienced by a rape victim, just a natural function, though her skin crawls in the clutches of supreme revulsion. She is being raped by her own sister. Mildred’s finger folds gently into her vaginal orifice as sexual humidity swathes it in wet-heated horror, “You’re wet Mia, just as I suspected you would be. You know what I want from you?”

“Please Mildred . . . I will never take you for granted again. Please don’t kill me.”

“Kill you?” she says. “Why would I do that? I want you to live. I want you to suffer. I want you to learn that material possessions and beauty is unimportant. Yeah the world revolves around money and superficiality; fashion and pop-culture bullshit—but you must learn how bad I’ve felt. How horrific my life is. What it’s like to be ugly. Unwanted. Unloved. Unneeded. I want to escape this world . . . and tonight I will.” She hands Mia a straight-razor, “Take this blade and cut your face like a checkerboard. Slice your lips off. Slice your fucking lips off you whore! Now!”

“I can’t,” she says twittering in unending fear. “I can’t. Please don’t kill me!”

“Here’s your choice you shallow gold digging slut: slice your face up and cut your lips off or I will blow your fucking brains all over the wall—and you know I will—or you will die. I am over you. I am over everything. Do it!” She blasts the wall with three gunshots, clipping hair from Mia’s scalp, “I will kill you. And don’t count bullets, this is a seventeen round clip with one in the chamber. I thought this shit out. Cut, slice, gash, incise NOW!”

The Ugly Bitch

The Ugly Bitch

Mia apprehensively grasps the straight razor placing it dead-center atop her forehead whilst Mildred continually massages her clitoris. She digs into bone and drags the razored steel down her face slicing to chin, her nose dissevered, skin parted and blood ejaculating. Six more violent strokes crisscross her once pristine face, beauty forgotten and life of ugly spawned. Mildred leans her head back in savage spasmodic orgasm and attacks her, whipping razor like butterflies of evisceration—blade cleaves throat—flapping wings of death spalling slivers of membranous matter. Colossal belts of blood buckle from slit skin; meat shredded and veins rended in festinated fury. Tears are puked from lachrymal glands as Mia perpetually chops, the chaos of rage betwixt her every intention until it finally dissipates like the sweet aroma following a storm, Mildred lying door-nail-dead on the kitchen floor. She wraps her face in blood soaked bandage and finds a note written by Mildred lying next to her carcass. It reads:

I am not sorry for what I’ve done to you, my dear sister Mia. I’ve always loved you and thought you were the most beautiful woman on earth. You’ve never known the sickening harrow I’ve lived through. I planned this all, down to the moment I knew you would kill me. As I lay dead on this kitchen floor, you think about yourself and what torture you’ve put me through. Now you know what it’s like to live in agony. Now you are the ugly one. The hideous one. The grotesque one. When you die, you will join me beneath the hottest embers here in Hell. Enjoy the rest of your life. I did this for you. I did this for god. Now you will suffer as I’ve always suffered. You ugly bitch.

Your loving sister,

Mildred

*The Painting: Salvador DALI “Prémonition de la guerre civile” (Premonition of Civil War), 1936, Musée d’Art de Philadelphie

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