A/N: Sooooo sorry for the shortness!!!!! Just got a lot going on, but I wanted to update anyway! Dedication goes to melaniamertenze for her amazing comments and dedication of reading all in one sitting! Thanks so much!!!!
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
The Opposite End of the Spectrum
The Hector Leyva first saw the girl when she was about sixteen. He’d gone to a local club, the Stench to Wench, practically the moment his plane had touched down in America and she had been dancing on one of the long, fold-up tables in the middle. He remembered watching her, as he took small gulps of beer in an effort to look convincingly normal. He found her beautiful, if a small bit thin, her eyes just a little glazed and sunken, but sparkling under the strobe lights; the stereotypical addict. Willing and easy, but, unusually, it took her a while to notice him. Once she looked his way, he understood why and, like many before him, something about her obvious blindness hooked and drug him in. Purposefully angry, gauging the young girl’s reaction, he nearly attacked her, his lips feverish and enraged. Her response was nearly challenging, matching his energy, as if daring him to break her, as if taunting him: saying that she was too strong for him, her fire too bright. He researched her after that, looking into her past, into the possibility of her capture. When he learned that her last known appearance in public eyes was over a year before, that she was dead for all intents and purposes, it was only a matter of time. Stench to Wench lost one of it’s regulars on February 16, 2012.
That’s how Sarah ended up in Mexico. Over a year after she’d met Matthew.
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Wikipedia Excerpt~ Hector Beltran Leyva
Although originally a part of the Sinaloa Cartel, the four Leyva brothers broke ties with this organization in 2008, after their father, Alfredo Beltrán Leyva, was arrested by Mexican military special forces.
The four Beltrán Leyva brothers then established the Beltrán Leyva Cartel. Today, the Beltrán Leyva Cartel is responsible for the procurement of fire arms and ammunitions from the United States in furtherance of their criminal enterprise and is responsible for the trafficking of multi-ton amounts of illicit drugs, including cocaine, marijuana, heroin, and methamphetamine, not to mention their career in human trafficking. Héctor Beltrán Leyva is also credited with rising rates of violence within Mexico, as his organization is reportedly responsible for kidnapping, torture, murder, and various other acts of violence against numerous men, women, and children in Mexico.[1] The cartel is also considered one of the most ruthless and brutal in the way they organize their prostitutional business.
The U.S. Department of State is currently offering a reward of USD $5 million for information leading to the arrest and/or conviction of Héctor Beltrán Leyva, while the Mexican government is offering a USD $2.1 million reward.
(*EDIT: This reward, totaling seven point one million dollars, was split between Michael Downing and his partner, Marcus Hamric on August 8, 2012, after the capture of Hecter was executed in July of 2012.)
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Matthew met her on January sixteenth of two thousand eleven; they were supposed to meet up again two days later, before we had to leave New York. She knew all about that; anybody else might have hidden their rising fame, any of us, but not him. He was completely upfront with her; he believed, on an almost subconsciously naive level, that she would be long term for him. He was, as James said, ‘twitterpated’. Having overheard her mock his name, I remember teasing him near incessantly, taking every chance to call him Mamat, until it became normal, the meaning lost in translation. Asim and William talked of his “princess” enough that our fans began to think of it as an abstract term, rather than a specific person, as if anyone could hold that station. I had barely caught a glimpse of this girl that first night; it was nearly seven months later that I saw her again. I had just barely met Emily and, in her first trip to America, she had suggested a bar in downtown New York. We had barely ordered our drinks when I saw her. Though my sight of her had been small, I was certain. Disgust had roiled through me, clenching at my insides. From what Matthew had said the one time he’d opened up, Sarah was blunt with her words, shy with her body. But this girl, this girl was passionately kissing a man so drunk that he could barely respond, her hand disappearing down, down, down- I had turned away, a judging grimace on my face. Matthew was broken enough as it was and the others had no reason to know. So I made myself forget about the incident, shoving it to the back of my mind and never saying a word.
~Jacen Brandon West
Date?
January 18, 2011.
Time?
9:57pm.
Place?
A coffee shop. Because isn’t it always? A coffee shop, I mean. That’s where the boy and girl always seem to meet.
I’d think about that later: the clicheness of it all.
And who?
That all depends on who you ask.
His name was Matthew Byrn and he sat inside that coffee shop for nearly two hours waiting for me. I should know; I saw him, watching from a cold bench across the street, snow turning to slush beneath my feet. I watched him arrive, nervous excitement staining his cheeks, watched his excitement turn to belly dragging disappointment, but still hopeful, his entire expression lighting anytime the bells sounded at the front of the store, only to darken once more as he slowly sunk back into his seat. It broke my heart, but I would not go to him, would not relieve that sadness in his eyes.
Matthew was far too much like Roza had been. Naive. Childlike in his innocence and excitement, but fragile as well. Like one of those perfect glass bulbs that hung precariously on the branches of the Quinton’s christmas tree: too beautiful to touch. I talked to Roza about a week before and couldn’t help but ponder on the change that had occurred in her. People like Roza and Matthew could barely stomach the thought of such evil, let alone the knowledge and act.
I couldn’t bear to watch this boy’s face pale in permanent recognition, couldn’t watch the light in his eyes slowly disappear with each passing second, couldn’t allow his spirit to shrivel the way I’d watched Roza’s.
So I glued myself to that cold bench, watching his face finally give way to despair, his feet dragging as he left, looking back not once, not twice, but three times, as if his glances might bring me back. But, eventually, he was gone. Eventually, I walked home.
When I remember that rest of that night, my mind seems to give me pictures rather than full on memories. I’ve been told that that’s an after effect of the pain I was in. Neala Quinton was fourteen years old, had invited her friend over for a sleepover that night. Her friend was my age, my weight, my size. Quite coincidental really.
I knew the house was burning before I even saw the smoke.
I don’t know why I ran inside, why I cared about these people’s deaths, but, for some reason, I did.
I don’t remember the ceiling falling. I remember pain and blood and fear, but I don’t remember the ceiling falling.
When the firemen finally showed up, when I was pulled from the wreckage: the sole survivor, I was rushed to the hospital.
My burns were so bad at first, so swollen, that I was deemed unrecognizable. They found five bodies in the house, assumed Neala’s friend was me, and pronounced the burn victim a Jane Doe.
I wanted to start over, so I pretended amnesia. After some discussion, they decided that I must be over eighteen, especially if no one was looking for me, and I was allowed to leave. For the first time in my life, I was free.
Ironic, huh?
Seeing that I was blind.
~Sarah Bannel Fallow
A/N: Please, please, please comment! It makes me write! In fact, I'd never written more than ten pages before wattpad. You guys are my motivation! So please: continue to comment even if you have before, and espesially if you haven't!
