*Author's Note: Any and all persons willingly engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microwave Spoil-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
**..**
Brenda Broussard watched as Angela Gernaud and an unknown blonde knelt on the filthy living room carpet and hungrily kissed one another for the amusement of her twin brothers, Peter and Paul. She did not find the scene amusing or erotic; it saddened her.
Angela wore her Cabrini Catholic High School uniform despite having been expelled a few months earlier. The uniform blouse was no longer the pristine starched white color it had been. The blouse was stained and there were sweat circles underneath each armpit. The skirt was filthy and torn in a few places.
The other blonde wore a halter top and Daisy Duke Denim shorts. Brenda had never seen this blonde before; she assumed this blonde was new to the addiction. Her clothes were relatively clean, her skin was still healthy, her teeth did not show the ravages of meth use. She even wore a wedding ring and a fairly nice engagement ring; she still had her jewelry.
"Hey, Angela, why you don't play with her tits, huh?" Peter smirked.
The trailer door slammed shut and Bobby Broussard, their father stormed into the trailer. He stopped in front of the new blonde and used her hair to pull her from her knees to dangle in the air.
"Fucking card got refused," Bobby snarled hatefully at the woman. "Your husband's card? Got refused."
"What? It, no, no, I got three hundred, Paul, remember? I got three hundred just this afternoon," the woman whined.
"And that three hundred's gone," Bobby screamed, face millimeters from the blonde's frantic face.
"And then we let you and this little pig here use another hundred worth," Paul said, kicking Angela when he said 'little pig.'
"Where's the card? I, I'll get some more," the woman pleaded.
"Fuck! That, that felt good," Paul said and delivered a second, much more forceful kick to Angela's side.
"God damn, what? Call that a kick you fucking pussy," Peter giggled, getting to his feet and approaching the groaning meth addict.
Brenda turned and fled to her room. She cursed Deborah Broussard, her mother; her mother knew what her father and two brothers were capable of. Her mother knew exactly what hell she was leaving her daughter to live in when she packed everything in her car one morning and drove away.
Brenda vaguely remembered living in a loving and happy home. She'd been a little girl when the Baggett Mattress Factory had caught on fire one night. Bobby had been injured when the roof collapsed. A series of operations had left him a bitter, scarred man addicted to pain killers. They lost their home because Bobby was spending every penny on drugs instead of bills. Their mother worked as a waitress at Dusty's Country Kitchen to pay the lot fees and the utilities for the trailer.
When Peter and Paul were old enough, they dropped out of school and began selling drugs. Bobby then hit on the idea of manufacturing the drugs, rather than selling for Lynelle Turner. Lynelle had not taken this turn of events well.
Lynelle Turner had sent an enforcer to the trailer, to persuade Bobby and Peter and Paul that cutting Lynelle out of the picture was a bad idea.
Lynelle was sitting In Sweet Pea's Restaurant, enjoying their stuffed pork chops when Bobby Broussard walked in, sat at Lynelle's table and dropped one of Farley's rings onto the table.
"Farley has retired," Bobby said, manic smile on his face. "But, here's one of his rings as a gift for you."
Bobby stood, wished the frightened man a good evening, and left. Lynelle picked up the ring and dropped it again when he saw the blood on the fake gold and glass ring.
Shortly after the boys dropped out of school, their mother took off. Bobby had not believed Brenda when she said she didn't know where her mother had gone and beat her with his belt until she lay on the floor, not moving.
Her father seemed remorseful for that day, remorseful for the horrific and unwarranted beating. He never raised a hand to her again. And, never displayed any affection to her again.
Now, running from the living room of their double-wide trailer, running from the sadistic and inhumane treatment of two women, Brenda ran past the lab room. She skittered to a stop; the door was slightly ajar.
The door was never open. In fact, there was a hasp that normally had a large padlock locking it securely shut. But someone had removed the padlock, someone had opened the door, and someone had left the room unattended, open.
Peering in, Brenda saw the equipment. She saw jars of liquid, saw various powders in clear plastic bags. And, she saw the green canvas duffel bag. The bag was unzipped and Brenda could see dollar bills spilling out onto the desk.
Whenever she needed money, for groceries, for feminine products, she went to her father. Bobby wouldn't even make eye contact with her as he peeled off a hundred dollar bill. Brenda tried to be a good girl, tried to earn his love. She would always offer him the change and he would just mutter for her to hang onto it for the next time she needed whatever it was.
Her Raggedy Ann doll, the last thing Deborah Broussard gave to her daughter no longer contained any stuffing. Brinda had pulled a few threads loose in the doll's foot and had stuffed all the dollar bills into the doll. A safety pin kept the foot secure.
Now, hearing the maniacal giggles and the obscene sounds of flesh hitting flesh, Brenda looked around at the source of all her troubles. Brenda looked around at the corrosive materials that had eaten away her childhood, her happiness.
A steady diet of fast food restaurants had played havoc with her body. At five feet one inch tall, Brenda Jo Broussard possessed a 30DD chest, a twenty six inch waist and a thirty two inch hips with bubble butt. She'd had her first menstrual sycle at age nine and Peter and Paul had taken notice that she had begun to develop.
Thankfully, Bobby had come in from some task or other and had caught the boys trying to touch the crying, begging girl. He had delivered an ass whipping to the two boys, Paul still had one upper front tooth missing from that day. But, other than to call her hateful names, they never bothered her again.
"And ain't never even said they love me neither," Brenda thought bitterly as she moved toward the equipment.
A disposable cigarette lighter lay on the high table. Brinda saw a gas jet and wondered. The brutal sounds continued, the awful giggling continued, their father's guffaws now joining in.
Brenda placed a jar of ether into a wire hoop and suspended it just above the gas jet. Turning the jet on, Brenda lighted the jet. Then, she grabbed the duffel bag and quickly zipped it shut.
The padlock was on the desk; she saw it when she pulled the heavy bag from the desk. Brenda removed the large ring of keys from the lock and hurried to the door, canvas bag in hand.
She knew, she knew her father would pull his.44 magnum from his waistband; he was proud of the large handgun, loved showing it off, loved telling people what it could do to the human body. If he caught her with his money, his precious money in her possession, he would not hesitate to kill her. The money was far more precious to him than she had ever been.
