Harbin Armand entered the hospital room where Claudette was tucked neatly into a clean white and blue bed; she resembled a soldier standing at attention, her arms straight at her sides, bony chin pointing to the bright lights that hung serenely above her. Her pale eyelids fluttered daintily over her butterscotch-brown eyes, two glass marbles leaking tears in a warm, light drizzle. She was a frail young woman; her hair was dark, stringy and thin, contrasting with her radiating white skin; small breasted with delicate shoulders, a crooked nose and freckles that bit into her skin in random, intense clusters.
“Claudette?”
“You know what they did to me. You know,” she responded, hushed but harsh.
“No, Claudette. But I’d like you to tell me.”
“What are you going to do with my son? He’s not right in the head, you know. He’s a sweet child, but he’s not alright. What do you want from him? He can’t do anything for you. What’s going to happen to him?”
Armand moved towards her bed arrogantly, pulling the stiff blue blanket that encased her, kept her safe, down her body, making her shiver. When he reached her head, he leaned into her face, huffing stale, sour breath into her small nostrils.
“He’ll be fine. We aren’t going to hurt him.”
Claudette’s tears thickened, causing choked squeaks between breaths to escape her dry lips. Armand pulled her hospital gown towards her head, stopping just below her breasts and stroked the stitches across her creamy white stomach that marked her survival.
“You should have just stayed where you were,” Armand growled, digging his fingers between the stitches. Claudette wailed.
“I have to take time out of my life to end yours, you b****!” He ripped the threads that held her together and dug until he grasped something warm and wet and pulled. Claudette screamed until Armand smothered her with his fat hand and continued to pull at her insides. When she stopped squirming, he removed his hand and calmly closed her now grey eyes, then excused himself from her stiff body so that he could wash his hands.

Claudette’s home was something of a shack. The yellowing, stained ceilings dipped low, caressing the heads of its guests, disposing dust and mildew caked crusts in their hair. The dark green wallpaper was peeling from the walls, damp and dying, ornamented by crude, childish scribbles in brightly colored crayon. The short hallways that connected the three small rooms of the main floor--the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom with a cracked and leaking toilet--were dark, with nothing but the flickering lights of the three rooms illuminating their ends. At the entrance, a little staircase of only six stairs led to a second floor that hid a disheveled bedroom shared by Claudette and her son, and another cramped bathroom with cracked tile floors and a layer of dust blanketing its mirror.
The furniture in the living room consisted of two ripped couch cushions, worn from years of use and spilled take out; and a small box of a television that sat in one corner of the dank room, complete with a secondhand VHS player that appeared to be broken. The television screen crackled and screeched, static jumping across the screen, blurring the face of a character from a children’s show. The voice of an ecstatic man skipped with the static, repeating the question“Un matin délicieux, n’est-ce pas?”
Armand entered the house with caution. The smell of urine, cigarettes, and whiskey charged an all-out attack on his nostrils and left a sour taste in his mouth. He considered backing out, going back to the station and having someone else do it; but he decided it would be faster to grab the kid and go.
He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and huffed the sweet smell of his vanilla fabric softener, settling his uneasy stomach before proceeding to the living room.
“Olivier?” he called.
  Un matin délicieux, n’est-ce pas?
Un matin délicieux, n’est-ce pas?
  Un matin délcieux, n’est-ce pas?
Un matin délcieux, n’est-ce pas?
Armand ripped the VHS player from the television and threw it at the screen. The question ceased and now the sound of a gentler static filled the room, casting a white glow across the soggy carpeting.
“Olivier? Olivier, putain!”  Armand squeezed himself through one of the narrow hallways, finding himself in the kitchen at the other end. All the lights were on, cupboards were hanging open, and dirty dishes were strewn across the dusty counters. In the far corner of the room sat a young boy of about 7 years old on his knees. His shoulders were thin much like Claudette’s; his dark hair similar as well. In the boy’s lap sat a stuffed rabbit. He caressed its stomach gently where a finger-sized hole leaked the rabbit’s stuffing.
“Olivier?” Armand called, gently this time, sure that it was the boy he was looking for. The boy didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the wall in front of him. Armand approached him slowly.
“Hey kid, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m a friend of your aunt’s. Y’know, Aunty Fleur, your mom’s sister? Hey kid, what’s wrong with you?”
Olivier was silent but Armand persisted.
“You can call me Uncle Harbin. How’s that? Hey, where’s your mom, kid?”
“Work.”
Armand took a step back, surprised to hear the child’s quiet voice, like receiving a drop of water from a rusty pipe.
“Alright well,” Armand spoke as he strutted towards the child, “your mom asked me to take you to your aunt. She hasn’t seen you in a while, she says she misses you, kid.”
Olivier continued to sit, content with his former silence once more. When Armand reached the corner where he sat, he resisted the urge to gag. Surrounding the child were trails of rat feces, wading in a cold puddle of urine. The smell was overwhelming, stinging Armand’s eyes and seeping through the minuscule pores of his handkerchief.
“F***, kid, that’s disgusting!” he yelled. Olivier turned his head to look at Armand. His eyes were large, soft, and innocent like a doe’s. Their brown was much darker than his mother’s, like mud after the rain, making them pop against his pale skin. His hair, unlike anything else in the home, was kept neatly. It was uncut, but brushed and glistening in the light, flopping innocently just above his eyebrows like melted chocolate spreading itself across a pristine wedding cake. The freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, not crooked like his mother’s, were dainty, making it appear as if his soft, chocolate-like hair had dripped, leaving sweet, imperfect drizzles on his childish face. Armand stood quietly for a moment, struck by the gentleness and purity of the child’s face.
“Hey, kid, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Olivier’s eyes remained locked on Armand’s fat, sweat drenched face.
“Alright, look, if you’re not going to answer me, I’m just going to take you. Alright? Jeez, your aunt warned me that you weren’t much of a talker but she never mentioned how dumb you are. Let’s go.”
Armand slid his hands under Olivier’s arms and pulled him to his feet, then took his free hand and led him to the brand new car gleaming in the gravel driveway.

“Bonjour, Harbin! This must be Olivier.”
“Bonjour,” replied Armand to the middle-age woman behind the glass of the dispatch office in the Strasbourg Police Station. Armand led Olivier to a door near the office while the woman continued to gush.
“Fleur must be one proud aunt! You sure are a cutie, Olivier! Good job, Armand. Really, fine work, fine work indeed. It’s no surprise you’re a favorite of Fleur’s. Oh, I’m just so excited!”
Armand pulled a small black card from his suit pocket and waved it in front of a black box next to the door. A loud click echoed throughout the station’s lobby and Armand pulled the door open.
“Hey, does the kid speak at all?”
Armand pulled Olivier with him through the door and let it slam shut. The hallway behind the door was long and narrow, and the sound of copy machines and printers could be heard faintly behind several closed doors. The smell of warm paper wafted through the air, then settled on the carpet to stay.
“Y’know, Olivier, you’re going to have to speak to your aunt. You can’t keep up all this innocent bullshit.” He put his meaty hand on Olivier’s shoulder and began walking towards the end of the hallway. Olivier stumbled, not caring that Armand was practically dragging him. He simply watched the large, wooden doors as they passed.
“Toilet,” murmured Olivier.
“What?”
Olivier grabbed Armand’s arm tight and squeezed.
“Toilet,” Olivier insisted. Armand shook his head.
“No, those aren’t bathrooms. Can’t you hold it? Fleur is waiting for us.”
Olivier groaned loudly and began whimpering.
“Jesus, kid, calm down. You can go later.”
Olivier’s groan grew louder until it seemed to fill the hallway from floor to ceiling. He refused to put his desperate eyes on Armand and continued staring at the doors until the groaning turned to crying.
“What?!” yelled Armand. He stopped and looked at Olivier who stopped with him, standing in a circle of darkened carpeting.
“Again?!” snapped Armand. “That is disgusting. No, that is repulsive! It couldn’t have waited? F***, first you ruin my car seat and now my shoes? What is wrong with you, kid?! Someone ought to smack you for behaving like such a little gremlin.” Armand’s face became pinker and sweatier; how one might imagine if he were to try to run. He cussed until it burned the walls. Olivier stood crying almost as loudly, snot bubbling from his nose.
Down the hall, one of the many doors creaked open, slicing the sounds of both Armand and Olivier’s chaotic cacophony. Armand stopped yelling and looked to see who it was, which quieted Olivier to a whimper once again. A young, thin woman with long, thick, dark hair stepped out. Her pale skin was radiant like Olivier’s, illuminating the hallway where she stood. Her freckles were light like her skin and her eyes were a bright butterscotch brown like Claudette’s. She wore a white sweater that embraced her poetic curves and a pair of blue jeans to match. The sweet smell of perfume trickled from her neck, washing Armand and Olivier with a feeling of calmness that ceased Olivier’s whimpers. Her smile was painted expertly with rosy pink lipstick-- not a single stroke out of place, like her long nails which were painted a similar shade of pink.
Her tender eyes fell over Olivier, and for a moment their eyes met. Olivier released his deadly grasp on Armand’s arm and began to breathe calmly again.
“I heard some screaming. Is everyone okay?” the woman asked. Armand took a step away from the child and nodded.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “Olivier here had an accident, though, and was very clear with his request to use the bathroom. I should have listened.” He nodded his head at Olivier, whose gaze was still intertwined with the woman, and apologized.
The woman’s eyes seemed to harden as they scanned Armand angrily; the butterscotch was suddenly 45 degrees below frozen. Armand could feel their solid ice as the greasy hairs matted on his neck rose slightly with his shiver and the normally warm sweat that coated his face and back became an unpleasantly cold bath. He knew she would always have him by her knowing glare.
“We will talk later. For now,” she kneeled in front of Olivier, “I’d like to get our darling guest of honor taken care of.”
Olivier’s eyes floated with the woman as she made the descent to her knees.
“Hello, Olivier,” she said, once again melting the rich butterscotch in her eyes. “I’m Fleur, your mother’s sister. You probably don’t remember me much. I haven’t seen you since you were very tiny.” She giggled playfully, as if this were an inside joke between her and her nephew, and offered him one of her peachy smooth hands.
Olivier recognized her as he did most people he had seen throughout his life. He rarely forgot anything, in fact, for he had a brilliant mind which harbored the images of things meant to be unseen and secrets meant to be held tightly. People were unaware of the capacity of his vast mind, speaking freely in his presence, for to them he was only a child of superior stupidity in comparison to his mundane minded peers.
He remembered Fleur with black makeup streaking her delicate white face, causing her to appear as if she were a dramatic sketch done in ink. Her hair, which was meant to be pulled into a tight ponytail, frizzed and freed itself from its confines as if it were struck with her distress. Her sister, Claudette, slightly shorter with flat hair that nearly reached her shoulders, stood across from her, arms at her sides in bony fists. Their voices spouted with hot anger in the restricted quarters of Claudette’s home.
“It’s revolting, Claudette! We could find them, we could make them pay! Look at what they’ve done to us! Look at your son, for Heaven’s sake!”
Olivier sat silently next to his mother, only four at the time, and stared blankly at his aunt. His father, who was also his mother and aunt’s brother, had left only months earlier without warning. It had been a quick and subtle event that made little to no difference in Olivier’s eyes-- his father was rarely there to begin with.
“He’s gone, Fleur! I don’t want to get involved. I can’t live that kind of life, not with Olivier.  I thought he would never leave; now that he’s gone, Olivier and I can live a normal life. I don’t want to raise my son to think that revenge is okay.”
“Olivier wouldn’t know the difference, and you know he’s harmless. Look at him, Claud, the lights are on but nobody’s home. Is that really the kind of child you imagined you’d have when you were a little girl? Olivier is the result of incest, mimicked by somebody who was raised to think that something so cruel is okay. You aren’t the only one who had to go through this, Claudette!  You just need to ask him where Marcel went and we can get him, stop him, make him tell us where Dad is and we can get rid of them. Olivier will never know and neither will anyone else!”
Claudette picked up Olivier and held him defensively.
“How do you know Olivier wouldn’t have been stupid with any other father? I have a learning disability myself, and I could have given it to him anyhow. I can’t do it, Fleur. I can’t get my hands dirty. If you want to hunt Marcel, that’s fine, but you aren’t going to use my son as your map. I just want to be happy for once.”
Fleur stared hard at Claudette in disbelief.
“Look at where you live,” she whispered. “Look at your face. Look at what he did to your face! What about me?!” Fleur began to cry.
“Just leave,” was all Claudette replied.
Fleur became more furious than before and suddenly her voice echoed through the small house.
“I will make him talk. I will find those bastards, and I will f***ing kill them!” she screamed. Her face was twisted with a hideous hatred as she ran from the house, tears and rain drowning her features.
The woman who knelt before Olivier now was not the menacing Fleur he had known before. Her sweet smell and inviting appearance made her seem almost motherly in a way Olivier was not familiar with; all he knew was that he wanted to fall head-first into its embrace. He slid his snot encrusted hand into hers, which was as soft as gooey bubblegum in contrast.
Fleur grinned. “You remember the lady behind the glass up front? Her name is Madame Bissette and she’s a friend of mine. She’s very excited to meet you. She will--um,” Claudette paused and observed Olivier, “--clean you up and show you around. The neat thing about this building is that it was built ages ago as a mansion, and the upstairs has since been converted to a home, which is where I stay. Your mom asked if I could take you for a few days, so you’ll be staying here, too. Cool, huh?”
Fleur stood, still holding Olivier’s hand, and led him back down the hall to the dispatch office.
“I’ll see you at dinner, darling!” Fleur called as she closed the door behind Olivier and Madame Bissette.

“What the f*** were you thinking yelling at Olivier like that?!” barked Fleur. She leaned over Armand, nearly straddling his lap. Armand was sat on a large wooden desk in Fleur’s neatly kept office, breathing in the faint smell of cigarettes as it puffed from her mouth in small, steamy clouds. His pulse throbbed against the surface of his skin.
“Would you like to explain to me what’s wrong with the kid? Jesus f***ing Christ, Fleur, he pissed himself! He--,” in an instant, Armand was no longer looking at Fleur, but the wall beside him. A black haze bubbled around the frame of his vision and the wall appeared to be trembling rapidly, but subtly, like a newborn earthquake. His face stung as if Fleur had taken a letter opener and whipped it across his cheek. He put his hand where the cut would have been, but there was no trace of blood. She had only slapped him.
“Now listen to me and listen good you fat, mediocre beast,” she hissed in his ear, “you’ve done your job’s minimum and I can do the rest myself. In 30 seconds, I could have your head hanging half off your slimy body, you pathetic excuse for a man.” She slid her talon-like fingers around his thick throat.
“You aren’t supposed to scare the damn child you idiot,” she continued. “We need him. We need to find Marcel. Now, if you really care about me, and you really want to do something with your worthless life, you will do what you’re told. You are going to treat that kid like he’s the f***ing king of this disgusting castle until he says where Marcel is, and even then you will continue to treat my nephew with respect. He wasn’t supposed to have this life. This is about him, this is about my sister, this is about me, but never will it be about you.”  She took her hand off his throat and shoved him away from her. Armand swiveled his head slowly to look at her. She stood in front of tall, gothic-style window to his left that peered out over the city.
“Any questions?” she asked.

Fleur’s apartment was located above the Strasbourg Police Station; a large, gothic-style building from 12th Century France, one of the originals. It was kept pristine, not a single aspect of it out of place. Fleur had never been married, and spent much of her time in her apartment or the station, which accounted for much of the minute and intricate tidiness.
“Bonjour mon chéri,” Fleur chimed in her loving, motherly tone as she entered the voluminous dining room in which Olivier found himself seated at a grand table that could seat twenty proper guests. He had been well groomed in the past couple hours he had spent with Madame Bissette. His hair had been washed and trimmed slightly, as well had his fingernails. He no longer smelled of urine, but rather lavender and other floral sweets; a personal favorite of Madame Bissette, who often spent her free time in farmers’ markets, milling through miles of mountains of organic household necessities.
Olivier’s damp, worn clothing had been replaced with a new pair of name brand jeans and a casual red button-up shirt. As was expected, he did not look at his aunt, but instead stared at his reflection in the dark wooden table.
“Did you two have a good time?”
Olivier stared.
“You must be starving, dear. Dinner will be out soon.” Fleur took the seat closest to him and caressed his back gently.
“Boy,” she remarked, “your mother must be very proud of you. You’re becoming a very handsome young man, Olivier.” Olivier grinned at this.
“I’m sure Madame Bissette scrubbed you raw, huh? She can be a little overpowering. She’s always wanted a kid like you for her own. Careful, or she might take you.” Fleur laughed, and Olivier joined her.
Smiling wider than Fleur, or most anyone had ever seen him, Olivier looked Fleur in the face for once and inquired, “Un matin délicieux, n’est-ce pas?”
Fleur was confused.
“I beg your pardon? It’s nighttime, darling.”
“Un matin délicieux, n’est-ce pas?” Olivier asked again. He began laughing. Fleur laughed with him and agreed that yes, despite it being a dark and particularly cold night, it was indeed a lovely morning.
  “Your laugh reminds me of your father’s,” Fleur said as the laughing came to an end. Olivier’s smile faltered slightly, then hung lopsided with confusion as if Fleur’s statement were an unfamiliar weight. Without skipping a beat, she continued.
“It’s been quite a while since you or I have seen him. You’re the last person he spoke with, I know. He always loved you most.”
Olivier began thumping his thumb against his thigh absent-mindedly, momentarily checking out from the conversation which had been going so well with his aunt. In the few seconds that followed, he was unable to listen.
Fleur slid her hand over Olivier’s cheek and stroked it sweetly as if rousing him from a nap. “Olivier, are you listening to me? I need to know where your daddy is, mon chéri.” Her tone sounded almost desperate. As if nothing had happened, Olivier turned his head to look at her and like a record picking up after a minor scratch, he gleefully asked, “Un matin délicieux en Plobsheim, n’est-ce pas?”

Around eight o’clock, after Olivier was sent to bed, Armand received an urgent phone call. He had been enjoying a late dinner, alone in his large mansion of an apartment, which resembled Fleur’s. Irritated by the incessant screaming of his old fashioned telephone, he rose to answer it. The moment it was off the hook, Fleur’s voice could be heard repeating “Plobsheim.”
“Plobsheim?” asked Armand, surprised by the urgency.
“Plobsheim, Plobsheim is where Marcel is. Olivier told me so. Go, go, you idiot! Go! I want him here before the sun is up.”
Plobsheim was not far from Strasbourg, and to discover that that had been where Marcel had been all this time, shocked Armand to say the least. After hanging up with Fleur, he threw on the suit he had on earlier in the day, replacing the plush robe he had more than graciously fell into the moment he returned home from his fight with Fleur.
On his way out, empty curse words dribbled from his mouth. He loved Fleur, no doubt about it. She was smart and beautiful--a classic golden girl in his book. Armand first met Fleur in college, where he learned of her family’s tragedies. Day in and day out, he listened to the stories of her father and her brother. Her mother had left when she and her siblings were young, an alcoholic searching for the missing piece that was, more often than not, forever missing. They had been a poor family, barely supported by her father, who had struggled greatly with alcoholism as well in his youth. He had spent the most time with his son, Marcel, the eldest. When Marcel turned 14, he began working with his father, a time that was spent sharing ideologies and opinions about the world. Fleur, the middle child, was usually left to watch Claudette, the youngest.
Fleur was only four years younger than Marcel, Claudette three years younger than Fleur. By the time Fleur was fifteen, her father had begun drinking again; this time, dragging Marcel down with him. It started at night. As soon as the sun went down, the two would drink until the sun came up and it was time for work. After weeks of showing up to work intoxicated and smelling of rancid alcohol, the two were fired as one and the drinking became endless.
Fleur had blossomed young, looking much older than she really was around this time. Slowly, her father began spending more time with her than he was with Marcel. His drinking made Fleur uncomfortable, and she was concerned about what kind of influence the excessive drinking would have on her little sister. In order to keep her father away from Claudette, she obliged her father’s demand for bonding.
One night in December, her father had asked her to help him collect logs for the fireplace, a job  he normally did on his own. He seemed anxious, like he was expecting a bear attack or an ax murderer to appear out of nowhere. The two, barely bundled in worn out snow apparel, trudged through the yard together, away from the house. In the shadows of their decaying old barn, behind the woodpile, Fleur’s father pulled a small hunting knife from his pocket and held it to her head, threatening to leave her to die in the cold night if she did not take off her pants. A scared teenager, she did not fight.
That night, a desolate sadness hung over Fleur like a suffocating wool blanket. It went on like this for the rest of the winter.
By June, her father had lost interest and decided it was time for him to go, like their mother had many years before. Marcel, nineteen, was left to watch over his younger sisters. He often spent most of his days drinking and playing with Claudette while Fleur went to school or worked around the house. The three could only afford to send one of them to school at the time, and because Marcel had no interest in furthering his education, but insisted that he could educate Claudette all the same, Fleur was the obvious contender for this position.
When Fleur graduated at the age of seventeen, she packed her things and left for a college nearby, so that she could keep an eye on her siblings. Marcel’s habit of excessive drinking had not improved much over the years, but Claudette, fifteen now, was capable of housework, and was attending the school that Fleur had recently.
Four months into college, she returned home to visit Marcel and Claudette. The house was a wreck, and Marcel was nowhere to be found. Upon entering the house, Claudette was found sitting in the kitchen, groaning over some basic Algebra. When she heard Fleur enter, she looked up from her work and smiled.
“Bonjour, Fleur!” she said cheerfully.
The young girl of only fifteen had gained a considerable amount of weight in her abdomen, and her face was swollen in several spots. Her nose seemed out of place--crooked almost--as if it had been broken but only partially treated. Fleur was in shock.
“Are you alright? Where is Marcel?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” replied Claudette. “He hasn’t been home in a few weeks. He does this every so often. He peels out before I’m awake and returns days, sometimes weeks later.”
Realizing what had happened between the two, Fleur rushed Claudette to the hospital, where the sisters were informed of Claudette’s pregnancy, and Fleur’s broken nose theory was confirmed. Worried, Fleur insisted that Claudette join her in her dorm room in college before Marcel got home, but Claudette protested.
“I want to stay with Marcel! He’ll be a good father when he returns! I want to raise this baby, give it a better life than what we had, Fleur! I’m sure Marcel will have a change of heart when he returns, I’m really, really sure of it!”
Tired and still in shock, Fleur left the next day before Marcel’s return. Periodically throughout the years, Fleur would visit home. Most of the time Marcel was not there, but Claudette was always home with the baby. Without fail, there were always new bruises, cuts, scars, or broken bones on Claudette. When Olivier turned three, Fleur finally convinced Claudette to run. Together they found her a small home where she could hide from Marcel. However, hiding from Marcel proved itself to be harder said than done, and soon Claudette was found and received a hefty beating for her betrayal. Marcel swore he would never leave her again, and for months he stayed, observing Claudette as she raised their son.
By the time Olivier was four, the ramshackled family had found a rhythm, and Fleur was invited over for a family dinner. Olivier was sitting in his usual spot in the living room, watching worn down VHS tapes while his father drank and sat on top of an old suitcase. Claudette was in the kitchen, setting chipped plates and glasses for dinner.
“Y’know kid, you’re one lucky bastard. You don’t have to grow up with a father like mine. He was a real piece of s***, but he sure knew how to get what he wanted. Hey, are you listening to me?” Marcel paced back and forth behind Olivier.
“I’m getting out of this s***hole before my pops returns, if he ever does. He had a thing for that sister Fleur of mine. Yeah, she’s a real fancy piece of work, thinking she’s so smart off at college. I can’t stand that b****, but he always had a thing for her and I know the hardest part of leaving for him was having to leave her. Me, well, I always favored your mom. She’s so innocent and sweet. She wouldn’t hurt a fly...She’s too stupid to hurt a fly.”
Marcel picked up his suitcase. “I’m going to Plobsheim, getting this great deal in the dope business. Maybe someday you can join me, kid.”
Olivier did not answer, but rather stared at the brightly colored television screen blaring in front of him. His mouth hung open loosely as it always did.
“Are you even listening to me, kid?”
Olivier did not look at his father.
“Oh, f*** you!” yelled Marcel, unexpectedly agitated, and kicked Olivier in the back of his soft head. Olivier began screaming, and Marcel bolted for the door. Rushing to the living room, Claudette grabbed Olivier and held him close. Just as Marcel reached the door, Fleur opened it, ready to greet the family she had been so optimistic to return to. Instead, Marcel rushed past her and that was the last anyone had seen of Marcel.
For months, Fleur plotted revenge, having been informed that Claudette had heard Marcel speaking to Olivier before he left. She was almost positive that Olivier had heard where Marcel was going, and devised a plan that was quickly shot down by Claudette. Heartbroken and angry, Fleur swore she would carry out the plan herself if she had to.
Months later, Fleur met Harbin Armand, an overweight man her age with the swagger and charm of any other young man, who she confided in to this day. The two began an operation to track down Marcel, knowing perfectly well that Claudette would never willingly give up Olivier, and that the only way they would ever get their hands on him would be to off Claudette.
Slowly, Fleur grew more and more menacing, ripping apart Armand emotionally day by day. Now, on his way to collect the missing puzzle piece in their operation, Armand was not sure how he had put up with it throughout all these years. He knew Fleur, though, and to know Fleur was to know the definition of insanity. On their journey to revenge, she had been losing her wits, and Armand began to fear her--but never had the guts to leave.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed, ya poor bastard,” Armand said to himself.

Almost two hours after his departure, Armand arrived in Plobsheim without a clue where to go. Plobsheim was not a large place, but finding much of anyone out and about after ten PM was a stretch. He did not know much about Marcel, and therefore had very little inclinations as to where he could be hiding out. Of course, in the business Marcel was in, he wouldn’t be someone to ask about in, say, a diner or a train station.
Armand sighed. He would have to search the streets.
Carrying his gun, Armand parked his car in a rundown neighborhood and began his on-foot search. For nearly an hour he paced through several streets, alleys, nooks, and crannies, asking every person floating around the sketchy neighborhoods of Plobsheim if they knew of a man named Marcel Arquette, to which they replied “no” or “who wants to know? Va te faire, fatty.”
As midnight crept across the night, a young man approached Armand.
“I don’t have anything for you, kid. Va te faire, va te faire!” snarled Armand. But the man was unphased.
“You the fatass lookin’ for Marcel?”
Armand put his hand on his gun. “Who wants to know?” he asked, borrowing the phrase from his earlier encounters. The man looked from side to side then back at Armand.
“No, the question is, who the f*** are you? You a cop or something?”
Armand sighed deeply. He was, indeed, a cop.
“No,” he answered. “It’s about his sister. Claudette.”
“What about her?”
“She’s in trouble,” he lied.  The young man nodded and a blindfold was wrapped around Armand’s watermelon of a head.
“The f*** is this?” yelled Armand. He tried turning around to attack his oppressor, but was knocked to his knees by a swift kick to each leg. He could feel someone breathing down his neck.
“Heard you were looking for me,” said a voice from behind Armand.

Armand was led by the two men who had ambushed him to a location that he could not track. He tried to keep count of every step and every turn in case he needed to make a quick escape, but after losing count multiple times, he gave up and decided he would have to flee blindly. Eventually the trio arrived at a building that Armand could not see. The interior was cold and smelled damp. He gagged, remembering Claudette’s home.
He was sat on a wet floor and had his arms tied behind his back before the blindfold was removed. He could hear water dripping somewhere in the building, echoing off the bare stone walls.
Above Armand stood the two men, the shorter of the two being the one who had approached him on the street. Next to him was a tall, slender man who resembled the Arquette sisters in almost every way. He grew his dark hair to his shoulders, and freckles peppered his nearly flawless pale complexion. Muscles bulged beneath his thin skin, giving his arms the appearance that they could burst at any moment. He looked furious, but concerned.
“What’s wrong with Claudette? I left that slag years ago.”
“She needs you.”
“What’s wrong with her, you piece of s***?”
“If it wasn’t important, she wouldn’t have sent me. She hates your f***ing guts, but she needs you right now.” His last statement earned him a hard kick to the crotch.
“Just tell me what the hell she wants!”
“I can’t! I would if I could, but I drove all the way from Strasbourg to get you, so you better untie me immediately and get a move on it. She said she needs you by sunrise.”
Marcel kicked Armand several more times.
“Don’t tell me what to do, piggy,” he growled. “Where is she?”
Armand thought hard about what to say next, not wanting to make Marcel feel as if he were being tricked. He decided to tell the partial truth.
“Fleur has her, and she’s angry. They’re at the Strasbourg Police Station. Fleur lives there now and she’s holding Claudette captive. You have to go get her before Fleur hurts her, or your son.”
“That’s all I need.” Marcel placed his strong hands on either side of Armand’s beefy head, and in an instant, a loud snap interrupted the dripping water’s echoes.

Marcel had spent the past three years hiding out in Plobsheim, where he managed to grow and conduct one of the largest drug cartels in France. He had connections north to south, and was fully aware of who Harbin Armand was before he met his end. He did not know much of the operation Armand was involved in, but he was fully aware which of his sisters he was working for--and he was sick of it.
“Hunting me, huh?” he said to his right hand man who had assisted him in Armand’s capture.
“Are you going to go see what she wants before she comes to you?”
“I have to. She is family, after all.”
Shortly after his encounter with Armand, Marcel was on his way to Strasbourg.

Fleur sat nervously in the lobby of the police station, her back facing the doors. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to reveal to Marcel why he was there immediately, or if she wanted to surprise him with her impressive home and complex business first. She had given the woman who ran the dispatch office the night off, hinting that tonight was the special night they had all been waiting for.
A mug of coffee trembled in her little hands. Marcel reminded her so much of her father, one of the only human beings she had ever despised. The end of Marcel meant that this would be the end of the operation which had consumed her life. She thought of all the things she could do. She could run an honest business, find a nice boarding school for Olivier, perhaps marry Armand. He was not her taste in man at all, but he had been there for her since the beginning and she was determined to hold onto him in case she needed him again for future affairs.
Thoughts of her future swam behind her eyes as she stared at the lobby floor. The trembling in her hands stopped, and for a moment, she forgot about everything that had happened in the past three years leading to that moment.
A hand on her shoulder ripped her from her fantasies.
“Ah! Bonjour, Harbin! You’re late.”
The hand on her shoulder slid to her neck.
“Harbin, what are you doing? Where’s Marcel? You had better have found him.”
The grasp on her neck became tighter.
“He found me,” Marcel said in a low voice, close to her ear. Fleur screamed.
“Where’s my son?” yelled Marcel as he held Fleur by the neck.
“I’m not telling you, you s***head!”
Marcel took her by the hair and pulled her out of her seat.
“Where is Olivier and what do you want from me?”
Fleur yanked herself free, leaving strands of hair behind in Marcel’s fist. She turned quickly, kicking the chair they had knocked over when Marcel yanked her from it out of the way, and punched Marcel in the jaw. They heard a crunch. Blood gushed from Marcel’s mouth. Unable to move his jaw, Marcel groaned angrily and punched Fleur back harder, breaking her nose. He then wrapped his heavy arm around her neck and squeezed.
Before he could crush her windpipe, the squeal of the heavy door next to the dispatch office made him stop. Immediately, he dropped Fleur and drew a knife from his pocket. Inside the doorframe stood Olivier in wet flannel pajamas. His face was swollen and sore from crying, which had caused him to cry harder.
Marcel was astonished.
“Grown, hasn’t he?” asked Fleur, casually, as if the two were admiring the red faced child proudly. At the sound of Fleur’s voice, Marcel’s astonishment dissipated, leaving the only other emotion Marcel could feel in that moment: agitation. Olivier’s cries clawed Marcel’s brain, scraping the tunnels in his ears; he thought his eyes would bug out of his head. Without hesitation, he dropped the knife and lunged at the child.
“What are you doing?!” screamed a bewildered Fleur. Stumbling to her feet, she grabbed the knife Marcel had dropped and held it to his neck. He stopped moving.
“I’m so sorry Olivier, I’m so sorry,” cried Fleur as she plunged the knife into Marcel’s neck. Marcel stuck out his arms as if he were trying to keep balance, then fell to his knees, choking. Olivier began hyperventilating as his aunt approached him. Still grasping the knife firmly, she scooped Olivier into her arms and ran from the station.