#salemyevette

A phone was raised to Yevette’s ear, tears stained her fair cheeks. In another location in town, Tristen’s face was also stained with tears, along with blood and bruises. A man was between them, on the other line with Yevette. Tristen got into some trouble this time, made a website for someone, maybe, or maybe got involved with drugs again. No information was given on why he was taken, but he was. And now Yevette was being contacted for ransom. The man’s voice was gruff and clearly all business, he didn’t care about Tristen at all. All that could be heard was, “Make the deal, bitch,” from the man, and Tristen’s desperate shouting in the background, both in Polish and English, begging her to refuse. “Lenny, shut him up,” the man growls out, earning a squeak from Yevette. It’s quiet for a moment, his pleas being the only thing heard, before a hit and a sob. Over Tristen crying, the man coolly says, “Well? What’s your choice?” The black-haired woman takes a moment to gather herself and wraps her hand tight around the phone, squeezing her eyes shut. “Replace him. Take me.” A pause. A laugh. “So we’ve got ourselves a Belle, huh? Save your family and switch places with him from the big bad beast when he’s the one who messed up? You do realize this will almost certainly end in you dying, right?” She nods and lets out her breath, despite the fact he can’t see her. She could hear Tristen screaming again and a different man demanding his silence, though he didn’t listen, and it broke her heart. She couldn’t do this to him, he already lost one mother, she couldn’t let him lose two. But could she lose another child? Could she willingly let another die under her own control? She couldn’t back out, she could never betray him. “Yes. I’m sure.” He laughs again, both evil and light-hearted. “Absolutely perfect. Be at your bar in a half hour. We’ll drop him off after your car leaves. No goodbyes, though, I hope you’ve said all you had to before he fucked up. Get ready, bitch, because your final hours start now.” Before the line fails, Yevette hears Tristen’s heart-wrenching shout, his voice strained, tears apparent, she could hear his heart-break. But she knew it was for the best. It’s all she’d hear until the moment she died soon enough, and she expected him to hate her. But she needed to save him just one last time.

“–One fine piece of ass, she is,” he was saying and Floyd knew immediately he was referring to Yevette, “I’m so glad that she’s back up there, selling herself, and shaking those perky tatas,” Hank smirked and Floyd cringed, “Sucks for you, though. Having a girl who can’t even keep it in. She’s not even yours, she’s everyone’s little sex figure,” he gave a bitter laugh, “And even with her obvious mentality that she has no worth, it’s still utterly desperate that she said yes to being your husband–not that that even matter with how she gives it away to everyone for money. Even if it is just looking. Pathetic. You aren’t even man enough to have a woman for yourself,” he spat out, harsh. Then he turned on his heel amd stormed out of there. Everything he said was striking a chord with him, his mood and self-esteem sinking lower the more be thought about it–and he thought about it a lot.

The more days that passed since Yevette was killed, the more often this happen to Floyd. If he was having conversations with his dead brother, then he was seeing his dead wife. He never knew when her jarring image—her in that dress, with her hair effortless, her voice like the ring of a bell, and an unnatural glow—would turn up. Usually it was at night, when his insomnia was just kicking in. She wandered about the house, never saying much more than his name. She was dancing to a song in front of the TV, beckoning him forth to an airy embrace. She dwelled on the porch, wishing on stars that she saw up in the sky. She was cooking in the kitchen and reading in their bed and singing in their shower.  Her laugh seemed to always be heard just around the next corner. And the next. And the next. And the next…