Remember, let her out of the front door
1999: Madeline's P.O.V.
"Get off me!" Madeline shrieked, her eyes blazed in infuriation. It was one of those nights, her father, Ethan was wildly drunk, eyes bursting with savagery, heart frigid in stone, the vulgar face of his long-standing mistress, Yvonne, her coy voice, laced by a honey sweet tone, the glazed hysteria incurred by class-A drugs, seemed to make her absurdity border on maniac disorders. Ethan's loosely hung belt, constantly positioned treacherously, as if waiting for the daunting catalyst to set of the perpetual ticking of an internal bomb, they say wrong place, wrong time, Madeline said, wrong daughter, wrong life. She braced herself for the loose-lipped vulgarity bomb, a game, she learnt to play, the insanity of it kept her sane, a game meant to be played, for those driven to the brink of humanity, for those driven to the brink of humanity by none other than the spawn of humanity, the degree of the rhythmically ticking bomb, the sound encroaching, louder and louder, until the aural pressure magnified in her mind, it was a full 100%, the moonlit rapes, the daylight raids, created an elaborate smokescreen, concealing the inevitable, the feared, the truth, this time, the silent bomb, inside, deep, buried in the hearth of Madeline's heart, one, so far away, further than the universe could carry, not even the perception in Madeline's mind, could detect, it went off and all hell broke lose.
1990:
The watery sickle, silvery and solitary, the melancholic cobalt of the night sky, the weak, forlorn glimmer, framed what Canada called the sky. Groans seemed to puncture the lulled muteness of the enigmatic swirl of near dusk. The poetic term for intimacy was coition, and the vulgar one was fornication, then the term of abstraction for that of flawed love was blemished devotion. These diplomatic muddles of language were aberrant in the heart of a derelict hut, neglected to nothingness, but there, ignited passion brimmed its entrances, the remembrance of these symbolic exclamations were revived in fascinating correlation with wails, sheer human-like wails, blurred between the lines of hysteria and mourn.
2014: current day:
"Greg! Here you are!" Morgan Brody, slim, curvy, honey blonde hair honed to perfection, with a tinge, a subtle hint of an alluring style. She deftly handed Greg Sanders a peachy envelope, the chromed colors ranged from perky peach to eggshell white, on it embossed, in articulate, professional font, announcing the recipient to join Morgan and David in their matrimony of love, unbeknownst to the former, single-sided sexual frustration hung and it could have been cut by a mere swipe my a butter-knife.