This centers on a deranged woman's path to becoming a complete nihilistic and feral serial killer. Emma Woodburn was put in the asylum for eleven years after killing her own husband and ten-year old son, along with the aging mother of a detective.
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Mrs. Summers cursed herself silently in the bathroom, fuming at the fact of ever being a mother from the beginning of this whole unreality. She flashbacked to her peaceful childhood, having caring and loving parents, an understanding, lukewarm brother and humble relatives, but to look at the present day, time did really suck as hell.
She banged at the mirror hard, trying with all her rage to cut herself on the glass but Mr. Summers found his way out of the accursed shit-storm to hold onto his wife, preventing her from ever reaching the point of a total breakdown. Her veins start popping conspicuously, heart already skipping beats and expressionless looks give the impression of a woman transforming into a nymphomaniac. "What the hell do you think you're doing?", Mr. Summers inquired his wife.
"This can't continue anymore," she replied hastily, "I've had enough. After this vacation, I'm running away."
"Running away? To where?", Mr. Summers repeats her statement, confused.
"Out of this life!", she shot back, "Can't you hear them? It's not going to stop."
"Relax, please. They're gonna stop eventually. They always do in the end," Mr. Summers beckons, his hands throbbing hers tenderly and searching for the sign of submission and understanding but neither gave a beat in her veins.
All that came to play now were memories. Dreadful memories that competed with the loud, growling noises of Brianna, Austin and Timothy. The banging of the front door came first, then the drawing of the thick, furry golden curtains of the living room, the lighting of candles and the knocking down of the large clock on the porcelain wall came last. Her father, a bearded war veteran with a bad case of pink-eye, made sure he walked blind folded every day of his life sitting at home.
Her mother, a distraught but over-strict and over-confident attorney went thundering past her husband then to the crimson red door that looked as though it was about burst open any moment now.
"Please, be patient, alright?!", she yells but it had fallen on whoever's deaf ears it was.
An intimidating, stone-cold-Steve-Austin like Mr. Ferocious of a man with a tag on his left breast that said "General" shown in the sight of the attorney. He didn't extend a hand, but a letter that was simply meant for her. As if that was all, this "General" stated that her husband was now officially relieved of duty, waved his cap and fled out of her sight.
"So much for the warm greeting," the attorney snarls silently. Before she even thinks of opening the tempting red parchment of an envelope, or even get a good sniff of its fine stench, she yells for her daughter, a seventeen-year old Mrs. Summers arrives from her prison chamber room upstairs with a grin on her smug.
"Why you lookin' happy all of a sudden, missy?", her attorney mother checks assertively, "You think this is an admission letter from Harvard or somethin'?"
"No, mama," young Mrs. Summers smiles, "Can'tchu see daddy ain't yelled or heard them voices in his head this entire afternoon? It's gettin' better."
