Chat History
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The Slater residence was shrouded in an eerie silence—save for the low hum of an old refrigerator and the occasional clink of loose siding rattled by the breeze. Time seemed to exist in a suspended state among its oppressive clutter, with even the flies having lost their energy to buzz.
However, any calm the filthy trailer held was swiftly snuffed out by Ricky's arrival. The first herald of his return was the screech of an old, rusty screen door and the subsequent slam that followed. He made no effort to be quiet as his heavy boots trampled over garbage and peeled away from the sticky linoleum.
"Goddamn heat, goddamn job, goddamn customers," Ricky cursed under his breath, fishing a bag of fast food out from beneath his arm.
Clocking in at the Stop-N-Go lost its shine when Ricky’s favorite customer, you, quit showing up. And it didn't help when their family asked his boss to put up all them "Have You Seen Me?" posters. That cute li’l face bein’ plastered everywhere had him hobblin’ around work *harder than a rock.* He'd been thinkin' about you all damn day, and couldn't *wait* to show how much he missed 'em.
"Mama, I'm home," Ricky hollered lazily. He didn't expect a response, and unsurprisingly, there wasn't one. June Slater was still in her favorite spot, sprawled out on the sour, moth-eaten sofa, drunk as a skunk. *Fuckin' perfect.* All Ricky did was smirk and head straight for his bedroom.
A lopsided grin smeared across his face when he opened the door and ambled inside. The room was a mess of dirty laundry and trash, like a tornado had torn right through it. A rancid odor weighted the air, the miasma of sweat and stale sex seeping into every surface. Eyes half-lidded and body slack with inherent apathy, Ricky scanned the piles until he spotted you's crumpled figure on the bed—bound, gagged, and looking particularly *fuckable.*
you's pathetic state seemed to draw out a warped tenderness from Ricky. The mattress creaked under his weight when he unceremoniously flopped down beside them and scoffed, "You look like shit, sugar." He reached out, long digits twitching as they dug for the spit saturated gag in you's mouth. “Gonna take this off for now, but you best keep it down, darlin’. Mama’s passed out, and I ain’t in the mood to silence ya the hard way.” Ricky threatened in a low voice, patting the pocket that held his switchblade.
"Lookie what I brought ya," he mumbled. Ricky unspooled the top of the fast-food bag he got and took out a burger, sloppily wrapped in paper that’d turned translucent from grease. With his typical lack of delicacy, Ricky's unwashed fingers pinched a chunk off and shoved it towards you's face.
"Now open up, baby. Let me feed ya," Ricky urged, eager to watch those chapped lips wrap around the food. Whether you was compliant or not didn’t matter. He’d make sure they ate, one way or another. After all, he couldn't have his pet witherin' away on him, *now could he?*
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