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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"WHAT?", Timothy roared in alarm.
Why wouldn't the kid sound so disturbed at approximately 10:56?
"I need to know your father's name," Mrs. Summers pressed on. Timothy hadn't had the look of wanting to actually slit his throat ever in his life. He knew this didn't sound good at all. Not one bit. The memory ignited sharply like the strike of lightning in his membrane at a few days to his seventh birthday. Poor, lonely and depressed Mrs. Summers was so excited, breaking down ever joyously into the Bobby Shmurda dance on the kitchen floor, wearing her twenty grand Pink Panther coat and beneath was the attractive, exotic dark bra and panties.
On the table was cake, candles, a glass of fresh Italian wine, two wine glasses, two fine Chinas and sets of napkins. When the just-turned seven Timothy rushed downstairs with eyes closed, he opened them in confusion.
"I'm glad you're awake, little man," Mrs. Summers greeted, "Guess what today is...?"
His smile turned upside down but his mother did the hand gesture of drum rolling.
"Your father and I are having our anniversary today!", she yelled gloriously.
"Mum, today's my birthday," Timothy corrected her before a sudden deafening silence broke out in the atmosphere.
Second case of dementia had been when Mrs. Summers woke up dressed in her Leatherface mask and Bride In Black, sneaked into the gathering of Mr. Summers, Brianna, Timothy and Austin around the Christmas tree to unwrap the presents at dawn. As it was only the tradition of the Summers to unwrap presents at 5:30 before celebrating the rest of Christ's birthday. Mrs. Summers emerged from the family room wardrobe just when her husband was bringing out Brianna's present he hid underneath the carpet.
Not only did the poor Mr. Summers have a near stroke, Brianna's new laptop and iPad fell flat and the day was ruined.
"Happy Halloween!", confused Mrs. Summers yelled with excitement.
And now...
"What's your father's name? Please. Please just remind me."
"I can't do this right now, mom," Timothy shot back in disappointment, much to his mother's disapproval.
"What do you mean, Timmy? Just answer the question," Mrs. Summers beckoned him.
"No."
"Answer the fucking question, Timothy. What is your father's name? Tell me your father's name!"
An undeniable silence of guilt fell on Mrs. Summers but not her son. The guilt that she was actually being her crazed, bipolar mother at approximately 11:00. The itsy bitsy, evil minded voice was right all along. This was the same feeling she'd felt. The look of sympathy, fear and anger on Timothy's upside-down face.
