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There's no flinch from Camille when Amma opens the door.
Momma must've given her the blue pills. They make Amma funny, sweating pounds like a sick hog, vomiting up stomach acid, but they make Camille sleepy.
Yes, she's heard vomiting coming from her bathroom, the rushing of Momma's footsteps, as well, but there hasn't been a peep in hours. Amma's curious, naturally. So in the cool dark of the night, Amma steps deeper into her sister's bedroom.
"'Mille?" A test of the waters.
Nothing but breathing; clipped breathing like the lack of an angel's wings.
A stutter in her chest, her throat. A noticeable rasp from all the vomiting when she was conscious. Her breathing is nothing but that of a death rattle, a bad, bad omen.
Amma doesn't seem to care.
Tip toes against the hardwood floor.
Amma gets closer to the bed, the very same where she lay against her sister, nearly nude, only in her cotton underwear. Camille rests, smelling like sweat and rotting milk.
Amma joins her, not in rest, but in bed. The mattress dipped with her weight, sheets digging into her fragile knees. She observes her, eyes wide and bug-like, like this isn't her sister; no, but an animal. The one thing she so desperately wants before Momma can snatch her away.
Momma always snatches Amma's toys away.
"'Mille," Amma begins again, resting her head on her chest. It's a rare comfort, even while she may be dead asleep. Amma stays like this for a bit, head on Camille's chest, listening to her heart. But she finds herself bored with this.
So, she pulls back.
Staring at her sister's sleeping body, Amma sighs. It's not fun when she's passed out like this; when her only friend is Momma. And sometimes Kelsey, Kylie, and Jodes.
Since the party, when they bled together, did drugs together, shared a bed, did everything she ever dreamed of together (almost), Amma's been obsessed; Obsessed with Camille.
More than sisterly, of course.
Momma raised rotten people, Camille first, then Amma herself.
She tries to heal them, Amma believes. But they were poison, poison, poison.
Regardless.
Amma's hand, sheened with Missouri sweat, trembling like a leaf, finds itself on Camille's clothed mound. It's less confident than herself; like it's nearly a dangerous thing to do. Momma would kill, Momma would howl like a dog with a broken leg, Momma would--.
Amma hitched a breath.
No thinking of Momma.
So, she didn't. She shook those thoughts away and moved her hand to Camille's stomach, fingers drifting above the fabric of her scratchy sweater. She traces her skin, feeling the rough bumps of words carved deep, and she spells them out with words that don't come out. Camille's breath hitches, her stomach lurching against Amma's touch, but she stays asleep.
Stay asleep, Amma begs quietly.
At that, she moves her hands back to her mound, palm flattening against Camille's underwear. She can feel the curls of pubic hair, how it's coarse against her soft hands. But that doesn't deter Amma. No, instead she moves her hands away, skin itching like a bug bite, and slides deep down into Camille's underwear, near her opening.
Has Camille had female lovers?
A grimace, a pang of jealousy.
Has Camille been touched like this?
Another pang, right to her heart.
Has Camille been fucked like a good girl?
Enough.
Amma bites down on her bottom lip, blood bursting as it does, and she drags her pointer finger across her sister's opening. It's reactive, as is Camille; a flinch forces its way out of her.
Still, she doesn't wake.
Amma prods, as the workers do to cattle. Oddly, in this moment, she's fragile, scared, nearly. She doesn't want to ruin this; she can't. She can't be like the others Camille has let touch her.
She must be better; she will be better.
So, she brings a finger inside.
A stutter in Camille's breath, then a twisted moan from her throat. Amma smiles, grins like it's all coming together. The throb against her pointer makes her wet, a gush in her underwear she'll have to deal with later. As she digs her knees deeper into the sheets, she maneuvers.
Patient, in, out.
But with a consumption of her patience, Amma enters the second finger, grinning widely when Camille moans out louder. A whole warmth spreads through Amma's body as she continues to fingerfuck Camille.
Oh, her fucking dreams. To see what she's dreaming of now. Amma hopes it's about her. Amma wants it to be about her. Consumption of the mind, Amma wants Camille to be her only thought ever, a second skin.
Curse her for being born too late.
But she's making up for it now, isn't she? Yes, yes, yes, she is.
Amma adjusts better, watching over Camille, every tremor wrenched out of her, every moan. Her knees still dig into the mattress, but she's lingering over, bent in a way as she watches her squirming face. It's holy. Isn't it?
Or, maybe, it's unholy.
Bad, rotten. Bad.
Amma shakes that away, continuing to finger Camille. Determination. "Don't leave, oh, 'Mille, please," She says, her other hand drifting against her cotton dampness. "You're the best thing to me."
What would she do without her?
Momma was wrong.
Camille moans, her murmurings incoherent. No real words that Amma can make out. But she keeps doing it, keeps fingering Camille. She moves down, pressing a kiss to her sister's lips.
Sweat, rotten milk, home, bad. All things bad.
It doesn't matter. Not to Amma.
And when Camille comes? Amma's wild, untamed. She releases her fingers, drinking her sister's juices. And as much as she wants to sleep with her, as much as she never wants to leave?
Amma lies down.
Just for a bit, just for a bit. Please.
She nestles herself in Camille's shoulder, damp and needy, her cunt aching and clenching against nothing, but she can't deal with that now. It'd be nice, though.
Maybe Camille can do it.