Previously on Wings of Light:
--- *** ---
"Despite my apprehension and prejudices, I'll take the utter responsibility to face the apocalyptic tribulations of the publicists to defend our family and our image instead of chasing the rainbow of picturing a peaceful life even when the journalists' quietness is a cold day in July. And I almost forgot to mention I saw the fifth door on this floor,"
"There's something fishy behind it! As soon as I got back in the hotel from the jogging, because I didn't see that on my way outside just a half an hour ago or so."
--- *** ---
"It's not just a sister of the church anymore, Miss Winters! Don't try harder to call them with their clerical titles that they wore just months ago! It's like eating the food that was thrown in the garbage bin and recycled with other remnants of the garbage!"
"I'm essentially there in Hartford because they are about to have an upcoming interview due in June!"
--- *** ---
"For what? I can smell your sweet lies and your journalistic shallow mind just to owe you anything I am not under an obligation to you actually, Miss Winters! You are on fire on about the water under the bridge just to be blind leading the blinds that is called your circle of fans to believe any quantity of your fabrications in your forthcoming book like for example about Jude and Timothy as great examples."
"I'm not lying. I want to find out about their nowadays lives. It doesn't hurt the knowledge."
--- *** ---
"Oh God! Oh no!"
--- *** ---
"Oh God!" Paradoxally icy paroxysm sprawled beneath Martha's muscles and perpetually petering out the physical stamina engulfing into her knees, managing to muffle the quiet sniffle whilst darting her doe, guiltlessly tearful cinnamon brown big, roundish optics to the exquisitely polished coat rack with her and Sebastian's rucksacks draped on the hooks, in order to prevent an eventual migraine due to the bone-chillingly mortifying scene, oblivious to the wheelchair accompanying the left side of her patient bed. "Oh no!" The thoughtlessly helpless attempts to jam her dispirited sable sobs break her flimsy facial expression apt to threadbare the tissues of her stark patience.
A long minute of heinously deliriously melancholic sobs echoing through the site's walls and tempest of stormy coherent waves of her roar speared the isolation the walls provided.
The great medley of hysteria, heart break and inebriating melancholy billowed up the young woman's boiling emotions in an individual cauldron of its fantastic amalgam and erupted up its cataract streaming from her puffy, vermillion orbs.
Martha couldn't control even an ounce of her inexorable emotions that composed its own symphony of her roar. It was her Achilles' Heel to harness her own emotions and feelings in such tough moments where her heart was mincing its own tiny, vulnerably glassy fragments on thousand particles of the remnants.
She couldn't bring back the time whenever she wasn't conscious yet to keep her wits about Sebastian's final moments before taking his own life balefully ominous and in the least villainously fierce, afflictive form even though his oblivion to Martha's exuberantly passionate lament over his demise. He was already dead after all. Sebastian couldn't feel anything. Even he scarcely could feel a mortal's sable soul, curling frostily rabid inside the frail ribcage. Anyway his soul lingered its own emphatically leisure, aimless wandering on the expansive, crudely cold world nonetheless.
There was always deadline for the formal mortals' souls to attain utterly peace with themselves until their final, impending destination to heaven or hell wherever their souls genuinely deservedly to be accommodated for an ethereal eternity. Ethereal eternity that was a foreign exemplar in its realistically meaningful notion for every mortal until their souls no longer harbored inside their energetically functioning, ominously signaling figures and seeking their own other home when the days were fully numbered. Nobody couldn't outlive anybody even for a century. But the possibilities of outlasting with a year or so any mortal was highly feasible eventually.
Even if it's been a few days since the both Gray family members' stay in one of the Waterbury's hospitals, anyway the young woman obtained indispensable information in the forms of heinous woes and fortunate news. On one hand, her unborn little sweet ray of sunshine survived after the Vermont State Hospital's break as the window was the last hope for the medical student and her uncle to seek their bloodthirstily yearned escape. On other hand, the doctors and nurses broke the unfortunately rueful news to her that after jumping from a tall building even if it the incident's estimation objected from no higher floor than the first, consequently the wheel chair wouldn't be objected from her daily life's regular transport even for brief journeys to the kitchen or to the bathroom, in order to fulfill her own needs and chores.
What the medical student could scarcely picture to individually do such as even the merest engagements even if they take less than a half an hour were taking a shower. That could cost her opulence of arduously great deal of efforts melding the humongously strenuous might escorting reassuringly the efforts. Notwithstanding the circumstances, Martha didn't have any experience with wheelchair and taking care of people that struggled with similar disabilities even bathing and preparing warm, majestically mouth-watering meals for them. Little did the juvenile medical student know how to cope with the current back-breaking task that's going to be part of her chaotic daily schedule. To use wheelchair and frequently manipulating her fingers to work on the wheels, in order to accelerate somehow the speed to channel gradually the process of the wheelchair's doubtless mobility. Even though the brunette is going to confront abundance of her peers' medley of facial expressions clearly lucid to be perused in the corner of her eye interpreted between incredibly panicked, achromatically nonplussed and primly rapturous, unlike her peers that appeared to be in the beginning of their twenties, her professors' faces and nude pink lips would be contorted into angelically compassionate, altruistically caring grimaces with a handful of exceptions.
It seemed like almost no one cared about the young lady's sinisterly relentless, venomously afflictive adversities wallowing her into the bloodthirsty covet by the demons and shadows of the past casted in the most sable, smoggy outskirts of the sites where her figure's illumination saturated against the reflection of her jet-black silhouette dancing rhythmically to every motion constricting her muscles.
Or rather, a few people of her inner circle in general would get attach to her even in her toughest moments when her adversities exuberantly clouded her vortex of thoughts. Her father not only excessively denigrated her and creamily emphatic billowed up each ounce of her self-esteem, but also demonstrated straightforward signs of aggression towards his only daughter that has once genuinely, cordially loved him platonically. Her uncle that impregnated her just a handful of months ago no longer inhabits the ginormous, nevertheless, menacingly raw world. Only her older brother Andy and older cousin Morgan Jill could be her last hopes during her tough moments when her physical disability severely impacted its own venomously lethal, apocalyptic affliction and agony on her.
The explicitly graphic, unavoidable flashbacks of the past few days when her uncle could motion and contract any muscle of his anatomy and could course its snort through his nose and the fat of his spongy, strawberry-coloured tongue perkily crafted series of vowels and syllables' compounds in their own constructions of outspoken confessions. Martha pearly missed each single moment that she has dearly spent with Sebastian.
There was no peculiar formula to rewind back in the time when he was still alive. There was no peculiar supernatural power to spellbind its hex to resuscitate his immobile, stiff mortality and hoary demise's recurring shrine spreading up to his toes. The true sentiment of somber homesickness rumbled through the chaotic hurricane of thoughts of the young medical student whilst folding her legs to readjust her seating posture until another faint sway of the hung out corpse of her uncle didn't rotate utterly to face her as his big, rotund cinnamon brown depths emotionlessly perniciously gaped at her as if the demise was an invisible spectral and mirroring the former mortal's lifeless replica to grant multiple frigid chills to their beloved relatives and nobodies that behold the immobile corpse.
"Miss Gray," The suddenness of the emphatically hasty venture of two affable nurses inside the patient room without a warning didn't break Martha's facial expression when the older woman approximately in her late thirties rushed to approach her, opting to grapple her chin with a handful of fragilely slim, olive-tanned fingers, in order to tilt faintly her head to meet her demanding gaze coiled into altruistic concern and sheer benevolence, whereas her colleague managed to survey in a studious scrutiny the strangled dead body of the middle-aged man. In spite of Nurse Fiorella Ethel's iron-willedly obdurate attempts to reassure her patient and acknowledge the genuine motives of her hysterical sorrow and melancholia, the brunette's stubborn objection to accomplish an appropriate maintenance in the form of a brief eye contact with the older woman didn't abet Fiorella Ethel at all.
"I didn't murder him." The heavier the sobs escalated, more rowdy the inward inhales the brunette's runny nose lodged, scarcely darting her stare to the redhead with her peripheral vision whilst diminishing abruptly the decibels of her starkly plain-spoken, low-spirited revelation. In the interim, thickness contracted her feminine Adam's apple and struggling to swig greedily the bittersweet flavor of the thick lump, whereas her puffy, doe cocoa brown embers hunkered down to eye blankly, glassily the space wee bump and her rigidly shapeless, conveniently casual baby green patient gown nonetheless, generously traded mutually. "I just woke up and I found out my uncle committed suicide with hanging out with my scarf." The incoherence sloppily gliding through Martha's naturally roseate, deliciously plumpish lips, twitched into the pointless, bland explaination she owed to the friendly nurse about the staged suicide scenario where her bare hands didn't have any involvement of Sebastian's eventual demise. It felt like a harmless child explaining to her parents that it didn't break on its own the porcelain vase as instead it was the pet's fault.
"I genuinely understand how upset you're, Miss Gray!" At the moment, the middle-aged lady draped one of her satin, chubby arms to secure the medical student's upper back and drawing her into a consoling, platonically tender embrace whilst her other hand worked on warmly, soothingly encouraging rubbing on circles her shoulder blade as the patient bundled partly her tear-stained, turgid complexion into her bulky bosom seeking its platonically mellow, unconditional consolation, wrenching shut her eyelids to efficiently allow the cataract of crystalline, gracefully spongy stream of tears eased its richness to trickle down her well-carved cheeks. "I can call your cousin and brother to pick you up in a few minutes and before that to have a glass of water or to help you with using the en-suite bathroom, Miss!"
"Just a glass of water and to go home finally!" Dawdling her angelically elvish, olive-tanned protective hand to paw her fleshy upper back, the older lady resumed kneading featherly-soft, soothingly nirvanic after wedging the circles' massage spot, whereas a weak, sunny smile twirled nimbly across her delicate facial attributes. "I'm just sick and tired of this madness." Sobbing uncommonly quieter than moments ago, the heart pulses the both ladies shared after their torsos unconditionally close inched, the rhythmical synchronization of the vehement heart pulses throbbing into their ears, outnumbering the heart monitor's dull noises and the further background dins.
"You will be fine, Miss Gray! I'll call your relatives to pick you up by promising me at least to take care of yourself." Shortly before breaking off the embrace, the nurse's bottom lusciously cherub bloody red-painted lip parted in the reassuring, emboldeningly warm ministration conveying its friendly reminder to Martha to take care of herself and lowly humming a mellifluous tune, jingling its honey-mouthed angelic anthems into her petite, flexible ears. "Stay strong, dear young lady!"
"Fiorella, I think I found something that clearly explains the Mister's real motives before dwelling out of the mortal's world!" As soon as the co-worker of Fiorella Ethel participated in the platonically intimate space the duo exchanged with each other, an austere grimace twisted upon her light-heavy wrinkles and flat line, flattening her conservative mauve-painted mouth while her translucent baby-green gloved-clad fingers crooked around the sheet of paper with the pencil embroidered illustration of a plain, childlike person strangled to death that caught off guard Martha and Fiorella Ethel as they shot their gawks to the blank. A brief text under the poorly illustrated sketch vividly candid engulfed their gawks even profounder.
Sky deep blue, very bright sun, sand all gone
The heedlessly sloppy scribble embroidered on the blank under the poorly drawn sketch with its undeniably detectable manuscript glimmered out its grizzle boldness past the trio's optics. Nonplus and befuddlement fantastically melded and scintillatingly irradiated Martha's tearfully doe coffee brown depths and struggling to sort her mind even when it was clearly impossible for her to detect the genuine notion behind Sebastian's final words and childish illustration with pencil before committing suicide viciously.
"I really don't understand this context." Gulping profusely the thickness compressing her throat while continuously examining the real context of the paper, darting her dry tongue to hydrate sufficiently her upper and lower chapped lips, shaking frequently her head in solemn disagreement to be familiar with anything associated with the last words embroidered on a separate lacuna, whereas the ginger channeled the quizzically questionable incline of her dark, well-shaped eyebrow that matched with her reassuring sanctums of ocean blue. "Or rather what it supposed to mean. He was the salt of the earth and he takes me back to the splendid memories we collected through the years. He was even much better than my father."
"In a New York minute you will be home or at least out of there, Miss!" The senior nurse's mouth elaborated the optimistically assuring, persuasive caution to the juvenile patient, registering a swift shot at the sheet of paper for a split second and then returning her gaze to her promisingly, invitingly sympathetic. "I just want you to calm down, while Nurse Fiorella will bring you a glass of water and will call your relatives." At the moment, the hypodermically frosty paralysis formidably stitched nimbly past Martha's dainty facial attributes while the redhead channeled her arms to readjust the disabled inmate in the wheel chair and shortly before retiring to exit the site, she manipulated her hand to stroke her long mop of licentiously tousled, greasy brown tresses as her brittle fingertips and digits raked gingerly every hairy tissue.
--- *** ---
--- Flashback ---
--- A Couple of Hours Ago ---
Once the very wee hours of the morning bled into the twilight, yet nocturnally sable lull looming the horizon and barely obscuring the darkest nuances of sable to portray the early morning's realistic, abstract landscape, consequently the middle-aged gentleman's eyelids pinched broadly opened at the ebony, shadowy darkness swaddling cozily its own children of the dark. Fortunately, not any single nurse or a doctor has set foot inside the patient room to supervise the duo's persistent, unceasing recovery.
When the middle-aged gentleman ushered his mammoth, masculinely veiny hand to muffle a blatantly slurred yawn, in order to diminish the megawatt decibels of his grogginess, thereafter he hopped up in the cozy slippers and managed to lurch towards the light switcher as his pristinely long, deft fingers clumsily, lazily strong-willed fumbled the fern green wall until they peaked eventually to something solider. Something different. Something less soft than the pleasant, abstract smoothness of the fern green walls grazed underneath his frail fingertips. The light switcher. In a single click, the artificial gilded light enveloped the bulb and contagiously transfusing bountifully to lit up celestially fiendish the surroundings that were once obscured from detection even with a bare eye.
Bleating a guttural, vapid grunt under her breath, fortunately, Martha didn't have any intentions of participating in the insomniac party of her uncle while flipping on the other side subconsciously and manifesting to grapple firmer the duvet and yet her brittle elvish, marbled hands white-knuckled, billowing up its callousness texturing the anatomy's physique.
Even more the Italian compatriot genuinely hoped he didn't wake up his niece from the nocturnal beauty coma and registering to shoot a fleetly shrewd glance at her emotionless, blank profile. She looked stunning even when she was slumbering peacefully.
"Phew! That was frankly close!" Eroding perpetually the decibels into an inwardly mousy mewl when he tiptoed warily towards his nightstand to retrieve the pencil and a separate sheet of paper from the top drawer, consequently the middle-aged gentleman aimed to the en-suite bathroom without an ado. Without being spotlighted as if a deer viciously ominous, cold-blooded was caught highlighted in the middle of the night, horrified and quavering devilishly bashful.
When the Italian compatriot surreptitiously ventured inside the en-suite bathroom and diligently humbly shut the door behind him, in order to not get caught by his niece, meanwhile he seated comfortably on the toilet seat and bleated a wickedly breathy, fiendish groan elaborated at the top of his lungs once his bare rear perched recklessly on the unknowledgeably chilly furniture at last.
Then Sebastian adjusted the empty sheet of paper to wedge his bare thigh and manipulating the pencil's edge to drabble heedfully his childish sketch of a person strangled to death, fixating his chocolate brown minerals, glittering out the restless puffiness embroidering his eyeballs.
Sebastian felt not only betrayed by his own younger brother who didn't dare even to pay a visit once to the hospital during his heinously, tremendously obdurate recovery from the plenty of glass bruises and wounds, but also it broke his heart how much Martha suffered shortly before her arrival in Waterbury up to now. Martha was literally the best thing that has ever happened in his life along with the unborn daughter they're expecting to be due in November. Instead of the lake of infernal affliction and agony to stream its tiny rivulets submerging his conscience and very thoughts about the nefarious serial killer, he rather preferred to choose the evanescence of the ethereal eternity beyond the afterlife's background.
He would no longer behold the foreign and familiar faces of the sorrow, happiness and moodiness. He would no longer feel the foreign and familiar sentiments of betrayal, heartbreak and numbness pummeling his conscience and vortex of thoughts. He would never fulfill the hallowed atonement with his brother. It would be immediately impossible. The impossible sometimes would be a better variant or rather version of resuming the absolute reality's arduous tribulations that shimmered out their crystalline brilliance of new. Something new. Something unfamiliar. Something challenging. Something demanding. Something speaking volumes behind its true notion.
--- *** ---
--- End of Flashback ---
--- The Following Morning ---
Once the Howards woke up in the wee hours of the morning and ordered for themselves a breakfast, besides taking a fresh, lukewarm shower, subsequently they fled the hotel as they were gone to an aimless, relaxing stroll in the small city of Tennessee.
The sheer, natural brilliant sunny saturation showered its profusely timeless light to curtain beamingly eye-catching the living beings' façades, leaked flesh and attires.
"Every day of our honeymoon is full of surprises." In the meanwhile, the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's leanly silken, secure arms scooped the six-month old baby in doting, unconditionally affectionate embrace whose light-heavy figure clung stubbornly to his mother's bosom, whilst his pudgy arms secured the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer's delicate expanse. The wet fat of her tongue purred the silver-tongued confession, yet the Boston lilt unamusingly stark accenting the vowels and syllables, while her honey brown minerals flicked up to prong the former holy priest's chocolate brown. Beamingly broad, purely heavenly smiles decorated their parchment complexions as a handful of strangers passed them leisurely.
"Or rather every single day, because there are even days when we dawdle to not leak outdoors," Darting his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue subtly to twirl its motion of licking greedily, gamely his upper and lower lip without wedging the swan, outstanding curve of his radiant smile, throughout the eager pursue of boring his smoky quartz bijous into his wife and baby son's gazes dotingly, invitingly maintained an appropriate eye contact though the dim glimpses at their direction. "There's always something sparkling and functioning even if we aren't interacting with somebody unfamiliar or familiar for us." The sheer wisdom sacredly ornamented the younger gentleman's utterance, whereas the former pious sister of the church channeled her head to humbly bob in the agreement.
"Indeed! Even if there are small cities like Adams that have nothing to offer with galore of landmarks to inspire tourists or civilians like them," All of a sudden, the wed pairing passed past the Adams' Central Cemetery where the sign labeled the precise location with a darkened fir wooden sign and bold manuscript inscribing exquisitely authentic, sublimely eye-catching each letter forming the three words, where a huge mass of people whose ages fluctuated between young and old honored the very memories of their deceased relatives and friends. From a distance, throng of gravestones exquisitely billowed up the sage grassland accompanying the monumentally lonely trees that were ornamented with marvelously grandiose, multi-coloured freshly flourished crowns. Fortunately, the throng of nobodies that populated almost each inch of the graveyard outnumbered elegantly the gravestones' quantity. Some of them were kneeling before the average sized entities, whereas the majority of the cemetery's visitants were either engulfed in a tight, consolingly warm hugs or allowing the luxurious cataract of their crystalline soar tears to vacate its luminously translucent beads blotching the marbled entities and dimly the grassland's sage. Tears, stronger than the motivationally versatile, divinely heavenly desires. Weaker than the daredevily steadfast, inexorable death. Sooner or later everyone's forthcoming or rather their final destination was to be buried and no longer beholding the day's beaming light and the other mortals' unmasked faces of their primness. "At least, there's something unique about any place that leaves a constant scar of memories to spawn in yar mind. It's sprawling out its explicit vividness of the memories you've collected even from such teeny-weeny cities like Adams. The ambience is beyond peaceful. The community of people equate to friendly. We are being surrounded by the nature. It's pleasantly balmy the weather that dance around us."
"It reminds me of a school trip my elementary school teacher organized to City of Ripon when I was approximately eight years old. I remember so far that the weather was quite soggy, howsoever," In the meantime, the British compatriot manipulated a snort to course through his nostrils followed by a half-heartedly hoarse, healthily jovial chuckle expelling from his mouth when a handful of the boneyard visitants drifted their piercing, tearfully puffy, doe gazes, glinting their rueful sorrow and pure curiosity to acknowledge the distinctive voices of the non-native Tenneessians roved circa their current location. "Howsoever, I and a few of my elementary school classmates had such a glamorous time. It's just unforgettable how a few words I emitted are worth a thousand golden memories."
"Tell me more about it!" The middle-aged woman boring her caramel brown cabochons into the former devotional clergyman's cinnamon brown, purely childish untouchable enthusiasm twinkled into her indiscernible jet-black pupils, whereas the clumsy tarry of the broad, wonderfully radiant smile etched to expand a tad across the former nun's mouth. Her elvish, yet protectively creamy hands ushered to bounce and swing faintly, tenderly their baby son in her scooped hug. "I'm veritably interested. Spill the tea!"
"Well, we traveled on plane the whole class including me and my elementary school teacher Ms. Atkinson to City of Ripon! It was a private plane, you know!" His strawberry-coloured, wet tongue crafted the ocean of vowels and syllables refilling the confession of the celestially vivid, aureate memory of the former aspiring Monsignor's childhood during his school years and one of his most memorable school trips to one of the smallest cities of his birth country. Meantime, the middle-aged lady honed her petite, vulnerable ears to the monologue's outspokenness to room her eardrums and then convey its assimilated information to her mind. Another faintly ferocious spring, balmy breeze fanned their couple's exposed bare fleshes and hairs, whilst Edward Ralph purred series of blatantly sweet, mellow coos and soothing babbles subconsciously while struggling to drift off asleep in his mother's securely doting arms. "It took us almost four hours until we established eventually in Ripon. Then it took us hours to wander the city just to see the fabulous, astonishing landmarks as Ms. Atkinson took us to galore of places to see for ourselves. Even the most famous landmarks like the Ripon Cathedral and Workhouse Museum were amidst the top places we didn't miss at all." The gracefully kindhearted touch of the sun lanced sinisterly thick layer of electrifying goosebumps seeding onto their epidermis and pursuing eagerly for the figures to stroke gently, promisingly inviting with its scintillating, warm saturation. Yet the promiscuous resplendent of the explicitly unforgettable, untouchable memories flaked perpetually the younger man's chaotically functioning tornado of thoughts.
"That's genuinely intriguing! Have yar say!"
"And the homes of the people varied between small like those cute and humble cottages and huge like mansions, howsoever, the mansions-like façades were less common, you know!"
"Mama! Dada!" Even though the wed parents extinguished their attention from the infant due to their abysmally logical and rational discussions they exchanged on their aimlessly respite from their stiff stay inside the nefarious hotel, an ice-cream seller accompanying diligently mousy the machine for vanilla and chocolate ice-cream inching the trio a few feet away. Oblivious to the landscape of the ice-cream seller, subsequently the six-month old infant registered to point with his pudgy forefinger directly at the older gentleman and flicking up his hazelish-brown jewels at the duo, kindling the very flames of childlike guiltlessness and warm affection. The genuine sanctums of the child soul or rather the youngest soul in the Howards' small household.
"What is it, my little cherub angel?" In the meanwhile, the former pious holy woman was caught off guard, struggling to conjugate the unevenly healthy, graciously startled gasp at the top of her brittle lungs, whereas channeling the sheer manipulation of her honey brown jewels on the six-month old baby's round, parchment façade. A handful of chromatically colourful butterflies maneuvering the vehemently sparkly flip of their wings hovered around the couple. "Look, there are magnificent butterflies!" The haphazardness of the blonde's caramel brown depths drifted to follow each perkily restless motion of the butterflies flipping eagerly their wings and circling them nimbly buffed a graciously exquisite grin parting her lips in a wide O and leaking her pearly-white teeth, consequently she darted her gaze back to the infant as Timothy examined in a scrutiny the scarlet butterfly which recently boldly perched on top of his nose. "Ya particularly meant them?"
"How adorable! I'm getting the picture what it feels like flapping the wings of your childish side." A boyishly healthy, guttural snicker left the former aspiring Monsignor's mouth as the trio halted in the stop to inspect in a scrutiny the beehive of butterflies and midst them, only one settling cozily on top of his nose and mischievously ticklish teasing the delicate, ghostly pale tissue. The dim motion of the flapping wings of the insect didn't cease the series of inflecting the breathy, recklessly childlike snickers under his breath, solely audible for the Howards. "I wish I turn back the hands of time. I feel deadly old in that body and with that very soul."
"Time is money, darling!" Following the true twitch of the first two insects' of their wings and restlessly unmerciful jockeying the sharp flick and hovering away their weightless, wee figures in an aimlessly different direction of the naturally photogenic, majestically luxurious illustration of the very nature, suddenly the older lady drifted her attention and darting a playfully authentic wink at her husband, continuously bouncing their son in her scooped embrace. "We all desire to alter the clock's arrows and our fingers stubbornly getting rawly hurt, because it was worth to do it but we don't have that ability at all. It was all flying just like the butterflies and they don't come back unless if it's some kind of a destiny or a coincidence that just smashes you a slap across yar face."
"Mama! Dada!" Stilling the outstanding point at the ice-cream seller whose meaty masculinely potent fingers danced around his glass of refreshingly lukewarm lemonade and constricting shut his eyelids to utterly dedicate his leisure to the balmy spring climate that was pretty common for the central-east part of the large country.
"Yes, little sweet ray of sunshine? Ya want an ice-cream? Don't you?" At the moment, the youngster's wet, spongy tongue sloppily elaborated an unintelligible babble, sufficiently coherent for the parents to fathom the context behind their son's insistence. "No?" Once Edward Ralph managed to shake recurring his head formatting his disagreement to masticate some ice-cream, consequently the middle-aged woman registered to pinch playfully ticklish with a couple of fingers his well-sculptured, chubby cheek and escorting its mischievously rich giggle. "Then what it could be?" A feather-soft snort floated from the former ambitious Monsignor's tiny, flexible nostrils shortly after the scarlet butterfly flew away and distanced emphatically from the small horde of people populating the outdoor site, whereas struggling to steer a pensive, brief purse wedging his baby-pinkish, deliciously plump lips. "Ya want me to have an ice-cream. Don't you?" Then the youngster channelized his head in a solemn bob, reaffirming his mother's posed question begging for an immediate response.
--- *** ---
--- A Couple of Hours Later or So ---
--- The Following Day ---
A day off from work could be rather interpreting the full weekend routine for the former prostitute, Andrea, factly, after heinously strong-willedly accomplishing her engagements and accommodating to run the flower store during the Howards' absence due to their honeymoon in Tennessee, thus Andrea didn't bother to pay a visit to one of her friends' workplace. The last time whenever Nikita and the former prostitute have behold one another was a handful of weeks ago at least especially after when she woke up next to her ex-love interest's hopelessly frigid, sinisterly immobile dead body in the wee hours of the morning and in order to get rid off of the corpse she relied on phoning her closest friends except Frank who has finished his night shift on the parking as a security guard.
In a few hours spent behind the graciously fresh painted walls of the doctor's office that has accepted a couple of immensely fretful physically and mentally patients and seeking agitatedly a professional council from a professional medical expert, during the eminently remarkable and formal arranged provisos between the doctor and the patients even non-patient nobodies hunting to fish out a veritably fundamental council, Andrea didn't pay much attention to the visitants except for their body language and dialogues swapped between the Texian and them.
The profuse mantle of the huge, roundish sun transferably pierced the broadly opened curtains-clad window and passionately enthusiastically sieving the office in divinely heavenly golden light, emulating to the natural light and stunningly eye-catching curtaining the female duo's complexions while seating against each other.
"It seems you're having quite busy day today." In the interval, the female platonic pairing exchanged cups of refreshing, happily steamy hot milk pooling their cups as their orthodoxy delicate, spidery fingers dangled circa the small entities for beverages. Huskily Wisconsin lilt generously foregrounded extraordinarily the Wisconsinian's straightforward confession, casting her jet-black gemstones at the promising cocoa brown. "Isn't that a blue moon, is it?" Rhetorically chanting the inquiry, throughout the Texian maneuvered to incline quizzically a dark, elegantly thin eyebrow articulating her recent humor starkly raw embossing across her charming facial attributes. A beamingly broad, candidly doe smile etched upon the both women's naturally roseate, plumpish lips.
"Andrea, it's like the other days. Blue moons are the days when I have a tad work or otherwise freaking exhausting one!" Thoughtlessly spontaneous heaving the heavily abrupt exhale streaming its cataract of refreshing oxygen nailing her frail lungs, while ushering her delicate, brittle fingers to convey non-verbally the cup of happily hot alabaster liquid to take a meekly tiny, hedonistic sip after faintly charring her berry-coloured tongue and her brim lips. "It's changeable around the clock. You don't know how many patients and people will set foot there and starting whining about symptoms of certain illness they're encountering lately." The purely nonchalant cadence creamily lazy shelved from her milk-stained, richly glossy mouth tingling angelic anthems into the older woman's ears whose jet-black gems fixated on the wooden framed Polaroid photograph of the Afro-American posing with her colleagues outside the hospital, buffing their sunny smiles spread across their mouths to sparkle vibrantly the vibes and the photogenic landscape of the hospital's staff.
All of a sudden, the initial dings of the pitch-black handset pierced the very walls of the office and catching off guard Andrea and Nikita as their muscles manifested to quiver shyly and their facial expressions greatly strained. The heart pulses jovially morbid amplified the hammers into their vulnerable ears and into their frail chests.
The ordinary embarrassing moments when the phone was rowdy humming in the room composing its own humdrumly uproarious ballad tingling alarming tones into the doctor and the former hooker's tissues, exceedingly escalated each phone call's unique eminence.
"Just a second of silence, please!" The suddenness of the Afro-American channelizing her delicate, orthodoxy creamy fingers to lug the weight of the mug of the light liquid as her mouth wrapped around the rim of the shaft, then leaving it aloof on top of her bureau and snatching the earpiece instantly thoughtless, whereas transfixing her friendly, glowing gaze on the Wisconsinian."This is Dr. Nikita Acacia Grimes!" The choir of gruesomely restless blinks stung the blonde's eyelids while ushering her naturally nude pink, delightfully plumpish lips to zip in a thoughtful, humbly mousy purse and folding her arms across her chest, while lingering the brace of her pleasantly warm, soothingly creamy fingers circa the small entity for beverages.
"Doctor, can you give me Ms. Drake for a moment to speak to her?"
"Of course, Mister!" Meantime, the Texian timidly protracted the ebony earpiece to her friend whose one of her elvish, marbled hands gladly accepted the offer and clung the entity to her ear nonetheless, whilst sipping of the mug of hot milk and throughout dumping it aside on top of the bureau, scarcely dividing a couple of inches proximity with the other cup. "Andrea, somebody wants to speak to you!" In spite of the purely hair-rising prejudices behind the enigmatic gentleman's persona who was crucial perpetrator of calling via the Texian's phone number to fathom the recent location of the former prostitute and accommodate a brief colloquy with her for a handful of minutes. The profoundly raspy undertones puncturing Cayden's masculinity and eeriness even if he didn't traded a site with somebody else. Sufficiently eerie and hinky to convey coherent waves of invincibly inescapable, abysmally blood-curdling chills to perforating abruptly the epidermis with ocean of horripilation.
"This is Andrea Heather Drake!" The haphazardness of the Wisconsin lilt razor-edgedly relentless rousing her idle declaim, yet the frosty chills hypodermically crawled beneath her luxurious layer of baleful horripilation, raising an arch of her thin eyebrow and squinting up her black minerals at the younger lady whose head registered a modestly encouraging, radiant nod and struggling to salute a dexterous smile flourishing across her oral slit.
"I'll connect you momentarily." The abysmally mortifying, raspy voice of the Italian compatriot sharpened his accent momentarily while the blonde's silky, soft fingers braced the sable earpiece and her eyelids forging an uneven, indiscreet blink. "Andrea?"
"Cayden!" Suddenly the Texian wrenched widened her cocoa brown minerals at her friend and an unwelcomingly spine-chilling frown busting her upper lip to twist in the grotesque grimace once the infamous serial killer's first name flashed to disquietingly uncomfortable, demurely squirming from Andrea's mouth.
"Judy Martin used to be my love interest and you came very close to be her friend."
"Excuse me?" Brilliantly dazzling bewilderment convulsed rabidly cheerful the middle-aged lady's enquiry and ushering her only free hand's fingers to cradle the mug's handle to sip of the chillier milk to recollect her train of thoughts as the heart pulses vigorously megawatt precipitated into her ribcage. A handful of minutes have aged the freshly simmered liquid even if it's mouth-watering flavor laced its preys' tongues and diminishing mildly, perpetually the temperature stabilizing the natural warmness.
"You are aware she's living with an ex-priest faggot that was the crucial reason of my arrest?"
"Y-Yes!" A few vowels and syllables to craft the stutter clumsily seethed the beginning of her tongue, whereas managing to grapple firmly a fistful of her casual wine red's mini skirt hem that joyously flared across her mid-thigh and bundling up her white-knuckled, calloused digits to joint the stabilization's strength rumbling up through her fist and fingers to plummet down the tremendously overwhelming distress of having a phone conversation with nobody else than the ill-famed, viciously bloodthirsty psychopath of Hartford.
"And how serious is your friendship?"
"Cayden, I," Another clumsy attempt to stifle her own chaotically discomfort and coyly distress to subduing its eek through the entity linking the both lines of the phone call, subsequently she muffled the sneeze as her fingertips manifested to loosen the grasp of her mini skirt and nail her nose while her lips busted to curve popped up and licking them greedily gamely the profuse layer of crystalline milkiness.
"But you still keep in touch with her. A woman who is like the other women, who has backstabbed me like my daughter and my brother did." Crudely frigid, indisputably baleful snort coursed through Cayden's nose as his solely free mammoth, alabaster hand's fingers cradled a cancer stick and taking a hedonistically graceful drag at it and curving his lips into a soft O to forge the foggy hoary dim permeating past him. "Did you honestly think that she will ruin our partnership?"
"We have never been friends or partners."
"And you should have turned her away if you had one ounce of loyalty."
A long a half a minute of intensifyingly terrifying, starkly icy doldrum settled in the thin air of the very space the serial killer and the former hooker exchanged with one another through dozens of hitched breathing and sensing the real afflictive disaster unknowledgeable sapping each healthily colorful, chromatic canvas of her facial texture and discolouring her natural skin tone. Meanwhile, a heavy, glassily jaded sigh bubbled up from the former hooker's torso and morosely incredulous bundling up underneath the thin veil of the transparency of her meager trust in the Italian compatriot.
"What's happened? Is your daughter okay?" Pretty aware of the breaking news via the radio about the freshly recent suicide of Sebastian, the middle-aged woman still seek answers associated with Cayden and Martha's relationship even if she has never felt any closure with him, nevertheless, the posed question about Martha somehow aroused her keen interest on rewinding the topic promptly without shadow of a doubt.
"You don't have the right to ask me that question." Austerely rawness smoothly prominent roared through the Italian compatriot's vocal tissues when readjusting his seating posture on his threadbare, scruffily old tangerine sofa while afflictively sore paralysis powdered the darkened hue of the Norwegian compatriot's façade, melding with the unhealthily pale canvas impaling her facial tone. "And if you do anything to illuminate the very name and reputation of the Grays, I swear to God I'll put you in your fucking grave." Coarsely husky slurs blatantly mewled against the earpiece's patchy hollow and jingling alarming tones into her eardrums after assimilating and overthinking the noxious caution erupting up the very adrenaline pumping into her veins and boiling vehemently the lava of blood to hydrate her muscles, bones and cells subtly.
Thereafter the Wisconsinian readjusted gingerly the entity back to the handset and ducking her face in the palms of her flabbergastingly warm hands to paw gently her temple, narrowing her sable cabochons at the doctor and offering her a primly vague, ruefully amiable smile incising the curve of her brim mouth.
Even if Andrea had meager encounters with the murderously ill-famed serial killer rather than with the Bostonian, yet she would rather grant her trust to her to him. Andrea couldn't betray her own very conscience just to participate in the Italian compatriot's guild.
--- *** ---
--- Later that Day ---
When the wee hours of the phenomenally inevitable night shed its crystal sable adamants blotching gradually the expansive sky with its starless canvas and big, rotund palish moon mounting all alone, the crickets' songs eloquently beatific and owls' uttering their ode of the twilight hoots piercing the buildings' walls. Everything seemed to have performed its ultimate peace hovering up the twilight horizon of the night. Adams was oddly quiet tonight except for its regular nocturnal odes streaming bountifully its eloquence through the inhabitants and tourists' façades windows.
After a persistently relaxing walk midst the small city of Tennessee's nature and trading on their aimless hike masticating some ice-cream, afterwards the pairing returned back in the nefarious hotel. Just shortly before managing to order for themselves their dinner meal to be installed right away in their booked room, consequently the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer seated on the convenient onyx ottoman donned up in nothing else than her loose angelically lily-white chiffon gown as its jovial hem towered down to her frail bare ankles and boat neckline leaking her milky, lean collarbones symmetrically inscribing her bone structure and unblemished anatomy. In the interval, her lion mane of flawlessly satin old Hollywood gilt tresses piled up neatly on her shoulders and outstandingly majestic curtaining her profile at last. Low, mellifluous hum escaped humbly her pursed roseate lips and thoughtfully pinching her hazelish-brown gems shut, constricting tightly her eyelids muscles to prevent any kind of light hideously scintillating impaling her irises.
The six-month-old toddler was profoundly asleep and swaddled cozily warm in the middle of the king-sized bed, recklessly dwelled out of the absolute reality's crude realm and its undiscovered, frosty caverns that were so untouchable to be imbibed by his honey brown minerals that weren't buffing to drain every life-like, abstract nuance of the realistic illustration.
"I have to admit I have never done this to your hair." The suddenness of the pristinely soft, satin fingers of the former devotional clergyman manifesting to cradle a charcoal gray ribbing while his other hand's orthodoxy virginal, nimble fingers worked on bracing the brush to rake gingerly the fistful of tresses on dozes to smoothen the hair texture at last.
"Yar talking about the hairstyles to be done on my hair?" At the moment, the older woman maneuvered her spidery marbled fingers fabulously snatching the hem of her casual chiffon gown as its soothing softness grazing beneath her digits and fingertips, reluctant to tweak sharply, unceasingly her eyelids to unlatching her facial muscles to respond. Flock of serenely inviting goosebumps prodding Jude's overall epidermis of her legs and arms underneath the fabric's attire, guarding her from the peacefully chilly, majestic spring nocturnal zephyr to assault the very walls of the hotel room.
"Yes, to be honest!" A sharp exhale almost transmuting into a dry snort serenely infernal coursing through Jude's tiny, vulnerable nostrils, whereas the British aristocrat managed to clear his throat after muffling with the palm of his mammoth hand the inescapably cold-blooded cough and his eyelids dawdled the doubtlessly restless, weary blinks where the huge scale of encumbering weight contracted the eyelids' tender muscles. "Your hair is genuinely soft and stunning. It's such a blue moon to see somebody with such hair of yours."
"Why thank ya, Tim! I think there are ladies that are privileged with such stunning attributes which accent their outstanding character as well. Some might have the shiniest hair. Some might have the plumpest lips." Suddenly fingertips and pads of the British compatriot's creamy fingers dearly pressed the brush's bristle type untangle unevenly, warily whilst he darted his tongue to sponge his upper and lower angelically cherub lips and fixating his smoky quartz bijous to glaze the older woman's halo ringlet of flossy old Hollywood gilded curls. "Everybody possesses something that will knock your socks off. Their privilege costs an arm and a leg for most of us that aren't equipped with it." Contracting her jaw to balefully trigger her pearly-white teeth to plummet down the abrupt pain of the tad of tangled curls, the middle-aged woman folded her legs uneasily whilst the seconds unevenly stark ticked forward without rewinding back in the time.
"There's nothing wrong with not having it, because your happiness will be under no circumstances! Be over the moon for something that's part of your one of a kind character."
"Indeed! But something is starting to prong my attention."
"What do you mean specifically, rare bird?"
In a long minute of unsettlingly uncomfortable, bleak hush suffocated the site's outskirts and the bloodthirstily sable demons and shadows chasing down their preys and following each motion twitching their anatomy's muscle outrageously. Solely the beige hairbrush's bristle type gentlemanly gracious combed and untangled the waterfall of luxuriously silky locks from the top and dragging down until peaking to its eventual golden apogee. Even though the heart pulses of the couple synced rhythmically vigorous into their ribcages and accelerating sharply bare the uneven heat building beneath their garments' torsos, yet the former pious woman of the cloth apparently attempted to sort her mind and to assimilate the aftermaths of Madeleine, Cassandra and Andrea reined the flower store and Madeleine's eventual encounter with a figure of Judy and Timothy's past. The notoriously fame-hungry, slyly prying reporter whose recent goal was finishing her book that was almost close to air out in the bookstores and libraries in a few years solely. Lana Winters.
The bittersweet flavor of the spelling of the reporter's first two names laced its exuberantly frustration mounting up the wed couple's tongues at the very thought of the old figure whose ambiguous character was under question even acknowledging thanks to Father Kellan Teagan and the juvenile blonde about her reborn in Hartford. Even though they've caught up with the recent updates about the brunette's recent stop in Hartford, the former members of the clergy haven't expected her to have any interactions with the homosexual clergyman and the juvenile blonde. Notwithstanding the circumstance, what it awe-inspired the Howards was how their beloved friends have halted and confronted somehow the brunette even if Father Kellan Teagan has somewhat informed Lana about the couple's absence in their recurring residence, in order to fulfill their heavenly unique honeymoon that was once per a marriage with somebody significant. Somebody that could be capable of utterly dedicating their heart to somebody in more than platonic link.
On one hand, the former members of the clergy have never been found of Lana and her excessively prying nature that emulated to her utter journalistic practice and methods to obtain whatever she yearned for more than anything to prosper in her own career as a reporter and journalist even writer. On other hand, their hearts somewhat rotted for the dynamic roller coaster of her bleakly somber tribulations that haven't penetrated through her armor of her invincible stamina and untouchable intelligence.
Judy and Timothy were unquestionably aware of the aftermaths of Lana's disappearance and when the young psychiatrist soiled her life when she's deprived from a natural sunlight and the ultimate freedom to savor the prospect of the authentically extraordinary nature. Deprived from anything that stimulated her muscles and hurricane of thoughts. They have never coveted anybody to follow the journalist's hazy footsteps and clouding their faculty of sight and very thoughts with anything that was against their will.
"That prying journalist." Reciting in a mumble the lumpy syllables and vowels constructing her revelation that burdened her dainty shoulders after overthinking the vividly graphic scenarios their beloved buddies have being through during their absence, stinging widely opened her caramel brown bijous at the painting hovering above her eyesight, admiring the abstractly crispy talent of the painter whose hard-work and creativity have entirely devised the complex painting of a middle-aged woman with neatly coiffed medium mop of appealingly flossy cinnamon brown locks nailed beneath her retro oyster-white hairband curtaining impressively her oval, full profile, whereas her ankle-length with long sleeves and illusion neckline gracefully fashionable contouring her healthily willowy curves. In addition to the noetically exclusive painting a charcoal gray cat whose traits fashionably likened the American Wirehair accompanied the protagonist behind the artistic masterpiece and behind the artist's frequent daub of his fingers crooked around the brushes spattering its various of colour shades to erect momentarily each essential segment and layer of the illustration.
"Miss Lana Winters?" After the series of disentangling entirely the divinely aureate curls from its kinky wires that headstrongly clashed the brush's shrubbery, consequently the former ambitious Monsignor lowly hummed in inquiring approval, shooting a swift glance directly at the Bostonian's caramel brown cabochons. "Right?" Then his honey-mouthed, sheepish repetitive posed question to reaffirm certainly the maintenance of the formidably icy doldrum asphyxiating their facial muscles to vouch boldly to the rebellious voices roaring subconsciously cocksure inside their blizzard of thoughts, subsequently the former licentious jazz nightclub singer gravely pensive darted her hazelish-brown minerals into the former holy priest's refreshingly young-looking, handsome face when his fingers worked on re-brushing her cataract of luster aureate strands elegantly.
"Miss Lana Banana!"
"Is that yes?" After the repetitive coil of the second thick, marvelously opulent blonde curl, throughout the British aristocrat chewed on his bottom scrumptiously plumpish lip and throwing an ominously quick glimpse behind his toned, muscular back to make sure Edward Ralph was profoundly asleep yet.
"No shit! I don't really have any idea what the hell does she want from us except to keep in touch and probably,"
"Putting into her new story about both of us and that morbid snake pit we dedicated our very souls and ounce of our decencies to be corrupted by the darkness it offered!" Shortly after the British compatriot concluded with his orthodoxy long, slim fingers working on the hairbrush to mundanely smart, humbly skimmed the halo ringlet of sacredly golden strands, thus he leant down to press a promisingly doting, angelically heartwarming peck to his wife's skull. In the meantime, the blonde candidly molted into the peck's potently bewitching touch grazing the back of her skull in no time. It felt like a fairy tale's fairy registering to gesticulate out their magic wands to conjugate its unnatural hex on their prey and transforming them into something magnificently unbelievable. "Maddie and Kellan are knocking the socks off with their initial impressions on her even if I have nothing against her unless she endangers our names and our very dear friends." After the polite attempt to cut off curtly, exquisitely the former pious sister of the church, meantime, her husband dumped the hairbrush on top of the other ottoman and his faultlessly nimble fingers operated fully on dividing one her locks ternary that identically canvassed her featherly-soft, fascinating hair texture twinkling its brilliantly sybaritic shininess past his cinnamon brown orbs. "Even if she isn't very fond of me or whoever emulates to distrust her, on one hand I think she deserves a second chance unless she screws it up and soils her own soul with the betrayal smeared across our faces and hearts."
"That is the question if a second chance would help her to be on her feet with our relationship and to not soil our names just for her nutty fabrications."
"Her dilemma is quite questionable, but I'm absolutely sure Maddie and Kellan won't second it to grant her forgiveness if she genuinely make castles in the air." The haphazardness of the younger gentleman tissues unceasingly knitting the strands into a gigantic braid, an ethereally crispy inhale of the inexorably scrumptious lion mane's fragrance teasingly pronged his nose and struggling to form a fabulously modest, purely beatific smile to decorate his parchment complexion and fleetly replacing his sorely wry smirk permeated across his mouth.
"Because Maddie is pretty ruthless and cunning when it comes to detecting the chary dominos until they're tossed out of their faces and eventually leaking their monstrously hair-rising, greedily grotesque faces of the void."
"Maddie is a pearly precious gem we're gladly serving our loyalty and support." All of a sudden, the pairing's jaw muscles villainously stubborn flexed to varnish their angelically kindhearted, pure smiles spreading across their suavely bold grins curving their lips into wide O at the thought of the Michiganian who not only was part of their lives for months, but also they could take a bullet for her and vice versa. The insatiably mouth-watering flavor of her altruism and loyalty built its sweltering heat of pinkness tickling their well-carved, chubby cheeks mischievously. "I'm thankful she's our best of friends through the toughest times we've chased down and ascended to the uphill." Timidly brittle tissues knitting the tresses into one slowly but surely, the eerie motionlessness of the older woman didn't dare to quiver any single muscle of her petite-frame, licking thoughtfully her mouth. "If you think about what she did for us and we did for her in the last months unlike Miss Winters, at least there's something Lana can do for both of us even if there are times I just can't stand her guts."
"Do ya mean to expose Briarcliff and shut it down on trillions of pieces even to save the poor Pepper?"
"That's the correct answer!" In a long minute of knotting the tresses into a neat, ordinarily attractive braid and bidding it with a ribbing a few times and tightening her hairstyle even though the dim ball of nausea ominously crimping recklessly ruthless in the pits of their stomachs once the name of their former workplace brightly somber slipped from their tongue tips.
"S-Something's wrong?" Dozens of uneven stammers sloppily clumsy foamed the Bostonian's mouth at the very thought of her fewest pal or at least most frequently interactive patient inside the nefariously old, dilapidating mental hospital and the undeservedly villainous, blood-curdling treatment Pepper earned from certain patients and staff members sickened to bones the married pairing.
"Jude!"
"I'm having mixed feelings about bringing back that snake pit that looks like a fucked up privy. I just want to throw up at the thought of it to step inside even if I took an oath to not even crawl a single finger to touch its monumental architecture."
"You have to overcome it. It will be the final time before everything ends in our favor associated with that," Purring its bark curling his upper nude pink lip and subsequently hunkering down to survey in a scrutiny his wife's majestic hairstyle he separated from his leisure to render her ethereally celestial, timeless grace to glitter restlessly, yanking her elvish, ghostly pale hands into his larger, amusingly warm. "That filthy, godless abyss of the earth. It will be our final time seeing the true notion of the disaster. We'll do it for somebody you deemed as another daughter figure and that deserves much better than to be transferred somewhere else after Briarcliff's final countdown."
"Ya don't have any clue how much I want Pepper to be happy and not just doing it for my own fucking sake!"
"I truly understand you! After that honeymoon, we're going back to Boston solely for her and then I'm not having any intentions even to step in that hellhole which is labeled to be one of the Massachusetts cities."
--- *** ---
Once the early spring common climate registered to suffuse its own contagious lukewarm mantle fanning the authentically multi-coloured crowns of the monumental trees kindling circularly the parking where the nightshift of the security guard has already commenced to tick unnervingly perfidious every elapsing moment while sidetracking, doing further activities than supervising the site and peering over the newspaper that caught his attention even if the radio escorted him to inform him about the breaking news and playing the hottest songs, the radio lowly hummed inside the humbly cozy cabin.
"When I woke up this morning you were on my mind and you were on my mind, I got troubles, whoa-oh!" You Were On My Mind by We Five was recently droning on the radio and incessantly pitching the cabin's coherently secure walls as the vocalist's eloquently velvety chant accentuated razor-edgedly the song's lyrics.
In the interval, the widower's masculinely potent, deft fingers lingered on the radio to adjust turning down the volume while his other hand clung infernally persistent the earpiece to his vulnerable ear and peering over his cherry wood bureau to examine in a scrutiny in the corner of his eye the whole nocturnal vista of the site outside.
"I didn't know that prying donkey would have the freaking nuts to ask over that cool fella of Timothy in the priesthood and Maddie about my pals that are currently out-the-town for their honeymoon." The pleasantly northern lilt of the widower sharpened his scowl as one of his colossal, masculinely veiny hands discharged the radio's tools to adjust the volume and ghosting his fingertips smoothly through the furniture's wooden surface and elaborating its uneasily ticklish drum.
"But she doesn't have the fucking right to put her nose in somebody's business that isn't worth even her attention to have her nose in the air. I'd rather advice her to keep her nose clean." The suddenness of the Michiganian's stormy, antagonistic grunt left her mouth, whereas the former police officer managed to diligently gullible, studiously inquisitive to squint up his lapis lazuli gems to spear out the window as the parking was bizarrely empty. Bizarrely empty that could be interpreted ambiguously according to variety of versions that formulated each nobody's individual exemplar. Miraculously, the Michiganian and the former police officer have shared less than a minute of phone conversation discussing their daily lives.
"Maddie, everything will be okay! She can do something really meaningful for us even if it's just only one." The older man's insisting attempts to reassure the young woman to resuscitate her sheer, childish optimism to have modicum of belief in the brunette that could be capable of solely shutting down the most nefariously old, sinisterly dilapidating mental institutions in the small city of Massachusetts in favor of the Howards is going to compensate their tremendous abhorrence of her even if they are doubtlessly far cry from fond of her persona in general. A morbidly wry, prim smirk spurted across the middle-aged man's chapped, nude pink lips. "Only one thing to compensate that hatred over something we're solely consuming ourselves. The hatred can be replaced with something more meaningful. More,"
"More logical!" At the moment, the juvenile blonde cut off curtly the security guard, graciously darting her tongue to lick greedily mischievous her upper and lower angelically cherub lips.
"Indeed, Maddie!" A heavy sigh bubbled up from Madeleine's frail chest, manifesting to bob her head in solemn agreement. "But with still, megawatt distrust! Take my word for it."
"Correct!" After manipulating to lug the mug of happily hot, steamy green herbal tea to take a guiltlessly delightful, hedonistic sip, thereafter the young lady dumped the mug aloof on top of her desk as the desk lamp's artificial light filtered partly with its celestially yellowish light the room and her solely free hand's virginally deft fingers fleetly, absent-mindedly teased the crispy cord on the mission of playful fingering and coiling the entity. "Then she can do whatever she longs for in one condition. To not crown us with the big time, thanks to her pathetic story to be on the front page of the newspapers!"
"I got worries, whoa-oh! I got wounds to bind so I went to the corner kust to ease my pains!"
"I'm not seeking the fame like the others would, because it's under no circumstances what kind of honor it will crown me with just for a deed that can be done by thousands of people."
"You know what, Frank?" Meantime, the flower store saleswoman unknowledgeably eerie curbed greatly bewildering her rhetorical question, begging for Frank's immediately sharp attention as his lapis lazuli narrowed surreptitiously bone-chilling at the pulled off fern green cab in the middle of the parking that dumped the rest of the free lots blood-curdlingly desolated and still not enough to fuel the nocturnally unwelcoming, bleakly patchy hollow of loneliness. "I remember so far when I was much younger like a little girl, I guess, and even counting my early teen years in Michigan, when Winters became the big-shot on the front page of the newspapers even some of my former dummy classmates brought the topic about her," After sipping monotonously out of her cup of healthily green liquid to recollect her thoughts at the very reminiscence of the homosexual reporter fueling her explicitly vivid tempest of flashbacks and remarkable memories of acknowledging her very name, subsequently Madeleine's modestly blatant conjugated slur of the hedonistic tiny sip of her tea echoed through the earpiece and reining off the widower's blatantly graceful, inwardly guttural chuckle clicking the roof of his mouth. "I knew so far that journalist bugs me off even if there are things she did with a cause except for her blatantly hilarious stories how she lost her own way to home or how to cook baked beans. My parents truly can't stand her guts due to the fact they're strict Catholics that are indeed pious and they would deem me as the same donkey as Lana."
"At least ya aren't leaning to be a homosexual?" The sheer self-consciousness clumsily didn't fade away from the former cop's rhetorical inquiry, incredulously bafflement contouring his charming facial attributes and inscribing precisely his wrinkles until series of devilishly rowdy raps on the shut door caught off guard the security guard, struggling to flex his Adam's apple muscles to swig the thickness into his throat and shooting a fleetly surreptitious glance behind his back for a split second gravely pensive, gullibly. "Are you?"
"Not exactly, however, it's interesting to still question myself and my preference where it actually leans to."Another door rap didn't maneuver any single muscle of Frank's anatomy to twitch timidly coy while darting his azure blue depths to scan promptly the parking yard, biting his tongue unintentionally due to the intensifying, nonplussing anxiety coursing through his veins and the vigorous frigid paroxysm pulsating into his frail skeleton relentlessly. "Well, I know so far there's something not exactly straight about me at all. I mean I'm going to eat my hat to fully believe I'm like the vast mass of girls on my age that is into their joes."
"There's nothing wrong with being different, Maddie! It's like being the only colorful butterfly amidst the other caterpillars, ya know!" Profuse layer of villainously playful, unknowledgeable clamminess coated the middle-aged man's palms after scanning with his peripheral eye glimpsed back behind his back and then quirking questionably perplexed his dark, thick eyebrows on reflex after knitting them to the bridge of his nose when Lydia Jane dawdled her fashioned petite hand into a balled fist to knock on the wooden door humdrum eventually.
"C'mon, you sluggard! We shall talk." The hoarseness of the vindictively wicked, girlishly supercilious snicker of the policewoman didn't vanish in the thin air even when it echoed through the cabin's coherent walls and door and tingling alarming tones into the older gentleman's ears.
"Yeah, just to ease my pains! I got troubles, whoa-oh, I got worries, whoa-oh, I came home again!"
"And I almost forgot that Judy and Tim will be interviewed in June and then they will be on a wee vacation to London like in late October."
"The door!" The exceedingly rebellious and hoarsely irritated emphasis of the policewoman chased down stubbornly the widower even though the flower store saleswoman wasn't oblivious to her friend's uneven stammers.
"What the hell is going on?"
"I'll tell ya pretty late about that one, Maddie! Ya better sleep tight and I'm sincerely sorry we've to end up to here for now. Good night, pal!"
"Good nigh-" In the meanwhile, the fiendishly sore, afflictively humdrum pip of the cut off phone conversation between the juvenile blonde and Frank once her wet, berry-coloured tongue sluggishly crafted the mouthful of vowels and syllables.
In a handful of moments after maneuvering to lift up his rear from the chair and dropping back the earpiece to the retro phone, thus the middle-aged gentleman scurried to the door as one of his masculinely veiny, milky hands perched on the doorknob and turning it until it desperately whined at the broadening scale of space at the prospect of the homosexual cop standing beside him.
Nauseously frosty ball paradoxally crept underneath his lower abdomen to perm frustratedly perky in the pit of his stomach, whereas raising an arch of his dark, thick eyebrow at Lydia Jane as his other mammoth hand's orthodoxy creamy, long fingers ushered to reach for his scalp to chafe it with his neatly trimmed, small fingernails bashfully distressful and maintaining an adequately formal eye contact with the younger lady.
The purely bright contrast between the woeful pout carved upon Frank's naturally baby-pinkish, delightfully plump lips and the serpentinely sly, prim grin embellishing exquisitely Lydia Jane's façade scarcely inched and interwining the thin, subtle elasticity of their distance.
"Good evening, Miss Morrison!"
"Good evening!" The haphazardness of the youthful nimbleness of the ginger to aim her revolver directly at the security guard ushered him urgently to raise his strongly fleshy, muscly arms into the thin air, indicating the formidably intimidation, whereas her swan thumb oscillated to press the revolver's trigger, shooting a mischievous wink at the recent target.
Author's Note: I know the recent chapters of Wings of Light including this one are slightly sloppy, in spite of my persistent attempts to please my readers. Furthermore, I'd like to apologize for the delayed updates, however, I tried my best to improve this chapter compared to the previous ones to include more scenes even with Jude and Timothy.
What are your thoughts on that cliffhanger? Do you think Frank will be a rival with Lydia Jane due to the St. Valentine's Day accident with Jude and Timothy in the bar or not at all? Do you think Lana will keep to her word to shut down Briarcliff even if it's solely mentioned her name in a few scenes? Do you think there's possibility Martha to join the guild of the good guys or otherwise she will still be part of her father's?
Don't forget to leave a feedback if you've really enjoyed this chapter! I'd like to hear your thoughts! :))