F3 Booty Hideaway

(Author's note: This story is an entry into the third Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC). The true author of this story will be kept secret until Wednesday, November 20, 2013, when the author will be revealed in the comments section following this story. There are no prizes awarded during FAWC; this is simply a friendly competition.)

(Inspiration for this and all FAWC 3 stories was taken from a single picture, which can be found here)

The tags for this story are FAWC, Outdoors, Brunette, Shy, Plump, Fat, Food, Jealousy, Water, Outside

* * * *

Erica Mitchell hated the artwork that covered a large portion of the living room wall in her parent's house. Her father hung the massive piece the year she turned twenty-one. Bright orange life jackets and chair mats added the only color to the vacation scene. Endless clear water, intended to entice the viewer into booking their next trip to the island resort, annoyed her.

Although she refused to admit it even to herself, she envied the brunette captured in the midst of a swim. The woman was all that Erica wasn't—slender, athletic, and seemingly comfortable with her body. She portrayed the confident woman Erica wished she could be. As the woman swam, she appeared to be ignoring the man reclining in a lounge chair just yards away. Even though she didn't date, Erica couldn't understand why the couple didn't seem to notice each other.

"Maybe they argued, or secretly hate each other, or maybe they're really undercover agents waiting to meet up with a snitch," she whispered, expanding the scene from her imagination. "No matter what, I wouldn't let him ignore me if he was my man."

She shook her head and retreated to her room where she sprawled over the bed until dinnertime. Climbing the stairs took all the energy she had left after working eight hours.

"Honey, dinner's ready. I fixed your favorites," her mother yelled an hour later.

"Be right there."

She hefted herself off the sagging mattress at the same time her stomach growled. Lucy Mitchell loved to cook and eat. After her husband passed away, the elderly woman stopped both, a fact her daughter discovered months later during a visit home. Convinced she would lose her one remaining parent if she didn't intervene, Erica quit her job, sold her belongings, and moved in with her mother.

Her old bedroom hadn't changed since she was a teenager. Rock star posters plastered the walls. Stacks of magazines covered the vanity. Pink fringe hung from the ends of her tattered bedspread. Boxing up her old things and shopping for replacements took more ambition than she had.

Tantalizing smells greeted her as soon as she opened her door. Erica hurried down the steps and went into the dining room. Platters of crispy deep-fried chicken, homemade French fries, hush puppies, and golden biscuits covered the green paisley tablecloth. She kissed her mother's cheek in a show of appreciation as she stared at the food.

"You didn't have to do all this."

"I know, but your father . . . he enjoyed my cooking, and I miss making his favorite foods."

"I miss him, too, Mama."

"Eat while it's hot.

Lucy dabbed the corner of her eyes with her apron before she sat across from her daughter. Erica bowed her head while her mother recited the brief prayer that had been a part of the family routine since she was a child. Instead of closing her eyes, though, she devoured the food in front of her, anticipating the first bites of each dish.

"And thank you, Lord, for sending Erica home. Amen."

"Amen," Erica said, reaching for the chicken as she spoke.

Neither spoke for several minutes. Erica filled her plate even as she chewed on a chicken leg. Her mother smiled at the success of her hard work preparing the meal.

"How was work today, Erica? Did you meet anyone new?"

Erica hated everything about her job at the call center. Spending eight hours a day listening to irate customers led to constant headaches. Even worse, if the girl was honest, was working with dozens of people who were trim, athletic, and confident, compared to her introverted personality and plump figure. Each day, as she sat in the employee break room, she watched the popular girls. Listening wasn't always possible, but if she had a table close enough, she did the best she could to hear their every word.

"Is there any dessert?"

The young woman diverted her mother's attention instead of answering her questions.

"Oh, I made pecan pie . . ."

Lucy kept talking as she disappeared into the kitchen. Erica slid her greasy plate of chicken bones to the side before her mother returned. Then she blocked out the faint voice in her head that told her she didn't need more calories and picked up her fork. She loved pecan pie.

"Have another slice, honey. You know it's always best when it's fresh."

Lucy cut through the rich filling before her daughter answered. She slid the over-sized piece of dessert onto the plate and smiled.

"I'll take care of the dishes tonight. You go sit and relax. Maybe watch some TV. Your father always put his feet up in that old recliner . . ."

Erica saw the change in her mother's expression but kept quiet. Conversations about her parents embarrassed the young woman. As a child, her father made fun of her shape. He would ask her to bring him a glass of water, then a napkin or the paper, just to make her walk more. His constant reminders of calorie count left her nauseous. Yet she continued to eat and to gain weight. Determined to block her father from her mind, Erica left the small dining room to do as her mother suggested.

The first thing she saw when she entered the living room was the huge picture. Bile rose in her throat as she imagined stuffing her body into a bathing suit for an exotic vacation. Disgusted, wishing she could block the entire scene from her mind, she turned away, but images of skinny people remained.

Erica heard the clanging of dishes and running water just as a popular evening game show began. The noise escalated each time she clicked the remote to increase the volume. Aggravated at her life in general, the young woman threw the small black device across the room and hefted herself into a standing position. She swore at the framed artwork before climbing the steps to her room, blaming the woman in the water for her frustration.

Lucy finished cleaning the kitchen and went to join her daughter for the evening only to find the room empty. She flipped the button on the television and turned off the lights. The older woman hated to be alone in the room she associated most with her late husband. He chose the décor, including the oversized framed vacation scene. The multi-colored sofa supposedly matched well with the orange in the picture. No matter how many times she looked at it she never saw the appeal he had.

Trapped in her room before eight in the evening, Erica soon became bored. The silence from the main floor was an indication that her mother was in her room. Images of the pecan pie floated into her vision as she paced the small room. She slipped the button of her jeans loose to rub her stomach where the waistband dug into her skin and caused a rash that constantly itched. Her fingernails dug into the tender flesh as her feet took her down the steps into the kitchen for another slice of pie. A can of soda went into her sweater pocket so she could cut into the gooey dessert as she walked to her room. There she washed the sweetness off her teeth with the sugary soda. The belch that escaped brought her last bite of pie up again, a common occurrence for the young woman. With it floating between her throat and her stomach, she stripped out of the tight clothing and donned a baggy nightgown. Then she crawled into bed and went to sleep.

****

Lucy was the first one awake so she could prepare breakfast for her daughter. The loneliness of the night before disappeared as she fried bacon and eggs and waited for the bread to pop free from the toaster.

"Erica, your breakfast is ready!"

Lucy stood at the bottom of the steps the way she had when her daughter was younger. She hummed as she thought about what she would fix for dinner that night. Maybe lasagna, she decided as Erica opened her door.

"Good morning, honey."

Erica's night hadn't been restful and she wasn't in a good mood. Her stomach lurched at the mention of food until she smelled bacon.

"You fixed bacon?"

The question didn't require an answer. Lucy noted the smile covering her daughter's face and beamed. Ten minutes later, with her insulated lunch bag in hand, Erica left for work. Her mood remained fair until she made her routine morning stop at the local coffee shop drive through window.

"One extra large caramel cappuccino with double syrup and whipped cream," Erica said into the machine when it was her turn.

Crackled sounds burst from the speakers with what Erica knew to be her total for the drink. She didn't need anyone telling her the amount—she ordered the same drink each day.

"Seven-ninety-six, please," the young girl at the window said.

Erica handed the girl her money as fast as she could. Young and athletic, the girl had dark hair, the same color as the woman in the painting at her mother's house. Within a minute or two, she had her change and her drink, and drove away. The brief interaction affected her mood immediately.

"What kind of couple goes to an exotic island so he can sit and read while she swims? She's so skinny I'm surprised she doesn't float away. And why would anyone want to stare at all that orange and brown? I swear I'm going to rip it off the wall one day soon. Or maybe I'll . . ."

She grumbled throughout the day, between customer calls, and during breaks. The only time she appeared happy was when she pulled her lunch out of her bag. Homemade bread held thick layers of sliced ham, cheese, and tomatoes. Lettuce from her mother's garden completed the sandwich. Erica consumed the meal in a short time. Crumbs clung to her shirt and around her lips, a fact she didn't give a thought to, or care about. The food had all her attention. Filled once more, she went back to work. Her shift ended at five and Erica drove home as if by remote. She longed to change out of the tight fitting dress slacks and top her employer required as daily work attire.

The evening went like all others. Lucy greeted her daughter from the kitchen where she was checking the lasagna. She slid the garlic bread into the oven and turned to set the table. Erica appeared several minutes later in an old pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt that barely covered her stomach. Comfort won over style.

Dinner passed in near silence. Erica had seconds and even thirds of the spicy dish. When they finished, they cleaned the kitchen together, then went in to watch TV. Determined to ignore the painting, Erica tried to stay focused on the news. The orange life jackets pulled her their direction anyway.

"Why did daddy buy that?"

"What?"

"Were you with him? What did he see in it?"

Reports of an arrest involving her favorite movie star held Lucy's attention. Erica shook her head at her mother's lack of interest.

"Stupid rich brat," she mumbled.

Wiggling her bottom toward the edge of the easy chair stopped her grumbling. She focused on pushing her weight up and went into the kitchen. Within minutes, she had a serving of lasagna heating in the microwave. She didn't even bother sitting at the table, choosing to lean against the counter, propping the warm plate on her chest. It didn't take her long to consume the entire serving. Her mother was still listening to the local news on her way through to her bedroom.

Their days and weeks formed a pattern. The women had dinner together and watched TV until they fell asleep. Eventually, they woke long enough to stagger to bed for the night. Erica's clothes no longer fit and climbing steps left her short of breath. Instead of working to lose weight, she ate more to forget how unhappy she was. Lucy didn't realize the very foods she loved cooking were killing her daughter. Despite living in the same house, and spending time with each other, they rarely talked about anything personal.

The picture became a constant reminder to the young woman of all that she wasn't. At night, in her room, she often imagined tossing it into a fire, or throwing it off a skyscraper. The images were the only source of humor in her life, making her laugh in a distorted, insane way. The more she hated her life, the more the artwork seemed to haunt her.

To avoid the picture, she spent evenings in her room, closed off from the only television set in the house. A tiny radio crackled country music for her entertainment. Late one night, she crept down the stairs to find a snack. Laughter stopped her cold.

"You'll never look like me if you stuff your face that way each night."

"Who . . . where . . ."

The artwork hadn't moved yet there was something different. The water shimmered under the bright tropical sun to reflect on her skin. A glance to the right showed the young man staring at her from the cabana deck. Muscles flexed as he stepped closer.

"I know you want my man. I see how you look at him. He'll never leave me for someone like you."

The voice taunted Erica. She touched the wall to steady herself before shaking her head.

"No, there's no one talking. I'm tired. It's the heat or—"

"Oh, but I'm right here, enjoying this gorgeous hideaway with my lover while you're sitting home stuffing your face."

Erica fled to the safety of her bedroom without looking at the artwork again. She hid under the covers where she stayed the entire night.

****

Garbled voices mocked and harassed her throughout her days . . . and invaded her sleep. Dreams became nightmares with dozens of brunettes surrounding her as she attempted to keep from sinking in the warm island waters. Images of beached whales accompanied male voices ridiculing her figure.

The voices followed her to work where she lost her temper with customers. Still she blocked them out long enough to devour mounds of high calorie foods that added more pounds to her weight. The relaxing view of the island hideaway tormented her until she couldn't take more.

"You aren't real," she screamed. "You're a stupid painting with ugly colors and I hate you."

Her voice rose with each word until her mother ran into the room.

"What's wrong? You scared the dickens out of me."

Lucy fumbled for the light switch while struggling to pull her tattered bathrobe across her chest. Her toes connected with the leg of the end table seconds before the bulb flickered to life.

"Oh lord, my toes, I think I broke—"

"You don't know anything, you scrawny bitch."

Lucy gasped at the words she thought her daughter aimed her direction until she realized Erica faced the wall.

"I'll show you, you twig, you—"

The artwork banged into the wall each time Erica pulled on the edge. She didn't hear—or see—her mother moving toward her

"Wait, you'll ruin it, and your father paid good money for that ugly thing," Lucy said, pushing against her daughter.

"You're nothing but trash."

A loud crack shocked Lucy but didn't stop her daughter. She tore at the artwork with her fingernails while continuing her tirade against the unseen person from her mind. Helpless, Lucy backed away as the entire painting pulled free from the wall. Erica fell with the mangled work crashing onto the floor. Silence followed for several seconds until Lucy began screaming.

"You son of a—"

"What the hell?"

Five manila envelopes lay scattered amongst the wrecked artwork. Erica scooted into a sitting position in time to see her mother empty the contents of one of the envelopes. Tightly bound stacks of money fell at her feet. They scrambled to check the other four before either spoke again. Their words bounced off each other in their excitement.

"For years I—"

"He pointed to that skinny bitch and mocked me—"

"I struggled to pay the bills and he—"

"Damn him," they yelled in unison.

Their rants turned to laughter. The maniacal sounds ended with both women in tears, but not tears of sadness.

"I bet he planned to vacation at that ugly hideaway after I died," Lucy said. "Stupid fool should have thought twice before getting on a damn motorcycle for the first time when it was raining."

"Mama, you're rich. You're rich," Erica yelled, tossing a handful of bundled money into the air.

"You found it, you should have it."

"No, no, it's not mine, it isn't even my house."

"But you would have found it after, you know, I passed, so . . ."

They sat in the midst of the destroyed artwork and the money discussing what to do with their newfound wealth. Toward morning, Lucy offered to cook. Erica had other plans.

"Mama, listen, remember when daddy used to tease me about being fat, and he always pointed to that woman in the picture?"

Lucy nodded but didn't reply before her daughter continued.

"I know just the thing to do with all this money. What if we . . ."

****

They lounged outside the cabana. Bright sun reflected off the clear water. Erica adjusted her bathing suit and smiled. A little over a year had passed since the discovery of the money; a time of major changes in both women.

"You look great, honey."

"Thanks, Mom. This place, the people, the water . . . it's all so energizing. I can't believe how sad my life was before the surgery. Without that money, I would still be stuffing my face."

Erica's weight loss surgery had been more successful than she thought possible. A two-hundred pound loss transformed her into a trim energetic young woman. Her confidence rose as her body shrank.

"Who would have thought we would be here, at this gorgeous tropical resort, just like that couple in the painting."

"I feel sorry for that brunette, though. She was stuck in that horrible artwork with barely any color to brighten the days," Erica said with a laugh.

Brightly colored umbrellas dotted the beach area across from the cabana. Lush towels, in sunny yellow, lay in stacks for the guests.

"I think I'll take a walk," Erica said, looking at a group of young men leaning against the bar.

Lucy smiled and hoped their next expense from the money would be a wedding.