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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After another heart-throbbing shower that was as warm as the autumn sunshine, Mrs. Summers left the tub wearing her silver eagle necklace, wristwatch, beautiful body colon and tied her dark hair up into a ponytail at approximately 10:14. The exact hour the two gay officers Emma Woodburn sat behind found out their car tires got blown up, and Matt Louise returned home late.
It was exactly what Mrs. Summers had in her mind. By the time that conniving, rule breaking Brianna returned home at the time she wasn't supposed to, she would give her a hell to remember. Dressed in her red gown, Mrs. Summers entered the kitchen, unhappy about the reality. She and her husband's relationship and marriage were actually restarting all over again.
They both hardly knew each other's names. What kind of shithole was beloved Mrs. Summers living in right now? She felt like stabbing her throat with the car keys she saw beside the stack of foil papers as she searched frantically for the baking powder and cooking oil, she used for making cakes.
This late night called for a celebration of the dawn of a new beginning, she muttered in her head, the beginning of rebooting their whole relationship from scratch. She recalled old school prom night with Mr. Summers as she hurled the refrigerator open in pure misery and frustration.
1990's was the only time in the world Mr. Summers even had a name. Then there was the strip club during the time she needed money to take care of her blinded veteran father. No milk, she muttered aloud. Mrs. Summers searched the other wardrobes and inside layers of the four corners of the entire kitchen. Still no milk. It was 10:20 approximately when she gazed at both the clock and wristwatch, remembering the stores are closed.
Suddenly, an inner rage was felt erupting from her insides, causing Mrs. Summers to yell out a noise of anguish. She started ripping the tiny hairs of the ponytail and staggered to the floor.
Fight the urge, she muttered aloud.
Keep fighting the urge, whatever-your-name-is. Oh my God. I feel so stupid. I can't remember my own name. Is this actually a sign of dementia or borderline disorder personality, borderline personality whatever?
The kitchen was now spinning with her head. Mrs. Summers crawled on the floor to all the knives stacked inside each hole.
Fight the urge, Mrs. Summers screamed.
I'm not gonna do it. I'm not gonna cut myself again. Don't do this, please. My son is there. I'm not gonna make him watch me. I am gonna get my shit together and start over with my husband, whose name I still don't remember.
She closed her eyes hard, but by the time she jerked them opened, a bread knife with the handle of the colour red was in her left fist.
Fuck!
Carefully, she held the tip close to her perfect chocolate skin and felt the sharp pain start to throb.
Don't do this, please. Don't do this.
Another voice competed violently, and it started to drill in her membrane. Why doesn't my husband love me anymore? He's out there fucking that Japanese cunt and I'm laying here on the kitchen floor trynna bake cakes. What the fuck is wrong with you, girl? Can't even remember your own name. You are really screwed up right now. Let's face it, you'll never be normal like all the mothers out there. It's only a matter of time till Brianna and Timothy...
Who am I kidding? Brianna's out there having fun and laughing at you. You've seen her face every time you spend mother-daughter time together. She thinks you're the biggest loser in the world. She's even better than I was when I was in high school. I can't take this anymore...I've gotta do this now...
Mrs. Summers held the knife at her throat, slowly piercing it into her smooth chocolate neck skin. When the world looked like it was about to fall on her, Kimberly's irritating voice was heard in the family room.
Of all the people she would listen to in the goddamn world, it had to be Kimberly. The only woman that had a bounty placed on her head after a sleepless affair with Martin Louise. She dropped the knife and scattered towards the direction of the late-night KN. News being repeated on the television with Timothy lying on the carpet and glaring idlily.
Of course, the only normal person she could be with right now. Timothy, her son and the only normal person that wouldn't give her the urge of killing herself. The only person who loved Kimberly. Not the KN.News, but Kimberly. Every night he missed the seven o'clock KN. News he'd hit the station on replay at ten o' clock and roll his eyes at the beautifully disgusting Kimberly.
"Timmy," Mrs. Summers smiles, "You still watching the late night KN.News because of her?"
He completely ignored her. His eyes so fixated on the movements and gestures of the pompous middle-aged hag.
"Timothy!"
"No, mom," the kid bellowed wildly, Im not."
"Well it's past your bed time, kid. Don't let me remind you every night."
"Fine," Timothy pouted, shutting off the image of the most hated woman on the planet and dragging his feet as he left his mother's sight. But she needed to ask him the one question in her head that was itching to come out.
