The Price of Youth

Probably this looks like yet another fanfic based on one of the buzzworthy—if you can even call it that, haha—stories on DeviantArt by NewBeeTSF, which only just recently came to an end.
Well, I don’t know why, but I felt like marking the occasion somehow and, among other things, showing my personal respect to the author, with whom I had the honor of talking for a while. To be honest: as someone who creates similar stuff myself, I was really struck by the sheer amount of resources he pours into his works (and in that I saw myself, haha—well, as they say, if you don’t praise yourself, nobody will, but that’s not the point right now).
Anyway, so this intro doesn’t turn into yet another story, I’ll just say it simply: my congratulations on finishing this grand project, and I wish you success not only here, but in life as well =D

...

'Damn it, wipe it up already!' furiously scrubbing the spilled milk off the tiled floor, Elena bent lower and lower, pressing the rag with such force as if she was trying to erase the very fact of her existence here. Sweat gathered on her temples, loose strands of hair fell forward, tickling her face, and her breasts, heavy under a tank top that gave her no support at all, swayed noticeably with every movement.

She paused, bracing herself against the floor to give her fingers a brief rest, though they already ached mercilessly, almost as much as her back. At that moment something rustled softly to the side, as if sliding over the tiles.

Elena whipped her head around: across the white squares of the floor a thin stream of milk stretched, running toward the refrigerator. And by the table, guiltily hiding his face in his paws, sat her striped old cat — Robert. The only inheritance from her past life.

— Mfffhhaydiooo… — she exhaled through her teeth, breaking into a whiny growl. — Damn you, Robert!

The cat pressed his ears flat but didn’t run away.

— Are you messing with me? — she went on, throwing the rag down and flailing her arms in despair. — We barely have any milk at all… and now it’s all on the floor!

A hoarse chuckle came from the next room.

— Fighting with the cat again, Lena? — the voice belonged to Lucia, a plump woman of about thirty-five, the “senior” in the blockhouse where Elena rented a room. She often liked to tease her with her “lessons,” playing the role of a mother.

Elena lifted her head and snapped back irritably:

— What else can I do? He knocks everything over!

Lucia, lazily leaning on the doorframe, measured her with a look from head to toe.

— You should’ve put him down already, — Lucia drawled, eyeing the cat with a crooked grin. — Old, useless, nothing but trouble. You barely have food for yourself, and you’re spilling milk for him.

Elena shot to her feet, and her tank top immediately stretched tight across her breasts. She caught Lucia’s gaze as it slid downward and came back up with a smirk.

— Don’t you dare say that, — Elena snapped, clenching her fists. — He… he’s the only one I have left.

— Left? — Lucia let out a chuckle. — God, the way you talk sometimes, like you had another life. What life, Lena? You’re just some girl from a filthy neighborhood who barely scrapes enough for food. And who soon owes Mister Alvarez.

She opened her mouth to argue. To say it wasn’t true, that just a year ago she sat in a leather chair with a glass of cognac, scolding subordinates for missed deadlines. Her voice then was steady and commanding, and even in an old body it made people tense up. But the words stuck in her throat. Her breasts rose heavily, reminding her of themselves, the straps of her tank top pressed against her shoulders, and instead of an angry tirade all that came out was a stifled sigh.

'Who am I going to prove this to? Lucia? Alvarez? Or the whole damn block… all they see in front of them is a cheap maid with a rag in her hands.'

Lucia snorted, as if she had read her thoughts.

— Exactly. And it’s stupid of you not to let Santiago get close to you. While you’re young you should use what nature gave you.

Elena felt something tear inside.

— What nature? I’m not… — she exhaled, feeling heat rush to her cheeks, but stopped herself, remembering just in time that no one here knew anything about her real past, nor about that mysterious doctor Pavel, nor about that strange operation where she was sure she’d wake up in a young male body. Nor about the traitor who screwed her over, slipping her instead of long-awaited strength and male energy this… Latina body in a poor barrio, offering her the humiliating job of his personal maid-mistress as a kind of “help.”

Elena clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. A lump rose in her throat. If only then… if only I had realized it was a trap…

— You’re not what? — her neighbor pushed mockingly, planting her hands on her thick hips and squinting slowly. — Not a woman, huh? Men look at you like they’re about to bite their tongues off. You’ve got what I don’t have anymore. Look at yourself. A knockout, ass in tight shorts, tits bouncing out of that little top of yours… The only thing left for you is to find a man before you get old. With a body like yours, I’d…

Lucia let out an angry breath, cutting her own tirade short. Deep down she knew she’d gone a bit too far, but she truly worried about this stupid, naïve girl. She had met her here in Mexico, in the barrio of Santa Inez on the edge of Monterrey. In that dusty district packed with makeshift houses and rusty stalls, where teenagers crowded around beer stands in the evenings and in the mornings old women set out tables with tacos right on the sidewalk. That was where Lucia first saw Elena: standing at a bus stop with a single plastic bag in her hand, looking like she’d just fallen out of another world.

That was why now, as Elena stood in front of her with a rag in her hands and her brows furrowed, Lucia felt torn in half. On one hand, she felt envy, sharp and too strong: this girl, with her firm body and doll-like face, could have everything that Lucia herself would never again have. On the other, there was anger, but not at her — at the world around them: she remembered seeing Elena lost and confused, looking around nervously until some guy got too pushy, offering her “work.” Lucia had stepped in, loud and foul-mouthed, shoving the bastard away and dragging the girl to her own place in the block.

Since then, Lucia believed she was the one who had pulled Elena off the roadside. “Without me you’d already be out there on Calle del Sol, spreading your legs for pennies,” she liked to repeat when she got drunk.

Lucia exhaled noisily, holding back another wave of words, and, staring at Elena, muttered:

— Fine. Sorry for what I said about the cat, — she shot a glance toward the spilled milk that Robert was licking up and gave a short snort, as if surprised at her own words. — It’s just… sometimes you piss me off, Lena. Goddamn it.

Elena silently squeezed the rag. The damp fabric clung to her fingers, and she felt her nails dig into her palm. 'I piss her off… but does she even know how every one of her words tears me inside out?' — flashed through her head.

Lucia took a breath, ran her hand through her hair, and added more softly, almost as if justifying herself:

— I’m not your enemy. You live under my roof, and I take care of you. In my own way.

Elena lifted her eyes. Something sharp flickered there, but it faded almost at once. Instead of answering, she dropped back to her knees, picking up the remains of the milk. Strands of hair fell forward again, her breasts swayed, the tank top tugged uncomfortably at her shoulders. She felt Lucia’s gaze on her — dragging, heavy, almost appraising.

— See? — the neighbor suddenly said quietly. — Even when you’re just kneeling there with a rag, you look like the kind of woman any guy would bug his eyes out for. And you’re running from it.

Elena froze. Her heart stabbed painfully in her chest.

— Maybe I don’t want to be looked at, — she said dully.

Lucia shrugged.

— In Santa Inez there’s no choice, mija. Either you use what you’ve got, or others use you. That’s how it is.

She turned and walked toward her room. As a parting shot she threw:

— Think about it.

The door slammed, and Elena was left alone. In the kitchen there was only the sound of Robert slurping and her own breathing. She sat on her knees among the white streaks of milk and felt anger rising inside her, so strong her fingers trembled.

She glanced at the dim window. It reflected a face that looked like the one she once had, yet even she herself wouldn’t recognize in that girl with reddened eyes, in shorts digging into her thighs, who she used to be. What looked back at her was a girl she didn’t want to be.

Elena clenched her teeth and whispered with her lips alone:

— You are Elena Moreno… Dios Mio… Just accept it already…

Robert meowed softly, as if agreeing.

And behind the door came the sound of a man’s laughter and heavy footsteps — Santiago was coming back to the block.