Welcome, friends! Come in, and let me tell you a Story A Day, all May long…
In June and July, I’ll be drafting two new Kifo Island novels. I know something about 5 of the 6 point of view characters, and I’ve got a sketchy idea of the plots – but I need to learn more about these people and their stories.
So, in May, I explore. Every day, I’ll follow the prompts in A Month of Writing Prompts 2016. I’ll play while moving through my planning efforts. Some of these stories may become part of the eventual novels, but my goal is to invite these characters to show me who they are and what they want – and how their lives fit together to make a novel.
I’ve been writing my story each day, but I slipped behind in my posting. I’m hoping to catch up by the 20th, and finish the month out on time.
I continue with May 10, following the daily prompt, “A story with a Hansel and Gretel structure.”
Yvette Perrault has an abusive husband, a tender lover, and a strong will to live…
Week Two’s theme is: Elements of Story.
Warning: This story contains adult language and themes, and is rated for mature audiences.
“You fucking little whore bitch!”
Yvette cowered over her vulnerable places. She was naked except for Zeke’s love marks, his juices combining with her own. But that’s not what exposed her.
It was Xavier’s fury, his pounding fists, his feet that found her soft places – breasts and belly – even when she huddled. He found every opening, wielded hands and boots like clubs.
And still, she dared to hiss, “I give my body to him freely. It’s you who took my money and my body as you would, without ever asking if I would have you!”
“Pourquoi?” He snarled in her face. “Why would I ask? You are my wife, my property, to use as I want!” His spittle sprayed her.
“But you can’t anymore! You’re no man, husband. You’ve got no coucougnettes; you can’t get it up!” He repaid her taunt, yanking her up by her hair.
His face was puffed and distorted by rage and steroids. His fine cheekbones gone; eyes cruel, empty. When she looked in the mirror the morning before she met Zeke she’d seen the same in her own eyes.
That’s what I’m fighting for.
She wouldn’t let him beat life out of her. She’d given him her heart and soul, shared all she had. He’d been a gentleman, suave, debonair, artistic, sensitive.
Non. . All an act; one she saw far too late, after she belonged to him. He’d taken all she gave him, ferreted his way to more – to all. He’d left her with nothing.
He shook her, dropped her like a rag doll. “Make me a drink, woman, and make it in your skin. You service that pretty boy, whore, then you’ll service me in a way that matters, after. Now allons-y!”
Yvette had ways to keep the spark of life in her eyes. She had lost so much to her husband, but he would never take her joie de vivre. That was her true treasure.
She blended his drink, added the tasteless, potent additive. In only ten minutes, he was slumped on the couch, hands and feet impotent as he was. She slipped into something sexy, not even bothering to fix up her face or hair, because Zeke didn’t care about that.
When she was with him, neither did she.
Time got lost to her when she with Zeke. It melted like a Dali clock. She got lost in Zeke until after dawn, and the sedative would wear off soon. Zeke wanted her to stay, but she couldn’t, even though she wanted Zeke; wanted to live with him, marry him, be a part of his schizoid reality, which strangely made more sense than her own.
She hurried home, threw open the door.
And was met by her husband’s fist.
“What in hell is this, Yvette?”
She worked her bruised jaw, spat blood onto the floor bitterly.
“It’s a phone, Xavier.”
Zeke treated her with respect. Xavier beat her bloody, then make her clean up the mess.
“It’s an account! With money I knew nothing about. How the hell do you explain this?”
“I called the numbers on this phone, Yvette. I found your accountant. He told me about the poetry and the painting. I’ve forbidden you to write or paint.”
“You forbid. But why ought I to listen? It’s my life, and my money.”
“Non, Yvette. It’s mine. You are mine. And you stink like that fucking bastard’s cheap cologne.”
“He’s not a bastard. He’s my lover. And my love.”
“What kind of whore falls in love with her trick?” It was a ragged scream.
“I’ve never charged anyone. You steal from me – my money, my body, my freedom. The rest, I give to Zeke.”
“Fine. Go to him in that Underbelly with its sleaze and perversions. Go live with him in his shabby little apartment, knowing you’ve got nothing -”
“De rien?” Yvette felt something rising up within her, demanding its birth. She wasn’t sure what it was, but Xavier was standing over her, straddling her, leaning down, his hands reaching for her neck.
Instinct jerked her leg back, made her scrabble until she could kick out at him – and one foot, still in its stilleto heel, caught him in his diseased groin as shrill mad laughter broke from her.