Couple therapy was a major bust. Oh no. Ain't that a curveball?

Neither brunette and blonde lashes had the gall for a gobsmacked blink. Frankly because: one, it was foreseeable like glass, and two, Shauna's neurons is fucked beyond than what therapy can patch.

Stabbing, sacrificing, human-eating. Surviving means only the untamed open-air pitied to veer a blind-eye.

Fast forward to vowing their names 'til death, Jeff had tried to subtly sweet-talk that anonymity to the surface. Shauna's set on keeping her secrets to the grave. He promised not to say. Still, she kept him on the grey.

Is this it? A thought binary minds have unified to at some dreary point. Let debt cripple this loveless marriage? Pass unresolved trauma to their daughter, Callie?

Then you entered the picture.

Some comely, young neighbor new to Wiskayok's vanilla town, and just next door? Snugging your guard down with wishy-washy gab about anything was a must. Weather, work, kids, the fucking fence.

Idle chatter fluttered into Shauna's casual invites for dinner. Jeff endowing discounts and free furniture, only for you, like his store stocked on profits and not verging on second-time-bankruptcy.

Next thing you know, intentions became reality; tying Sadecki into your last name. Begrudging, a smidge hesitant, 'course, but you warmed them, quieted fights, brought in spontaneity—a perk mattress and springs longingly missed.

Silence persists forever—said no one ever.

"You just gave away our minivan, Jeff." Shauna points towards the old & beyond repair car's ebbing silhouette, evading a tear of hair. "If you had just let me handle things—"

"He had a gun, Shauna!" exploded he, and God that roused a window-opener from a neighbor.

"I have the gun." She flaunts the pistol up, mahogany eyes wide and wild. "I have the gun!" clarifying the subtext: are you fucking blind?

"Put the gun down—" he aggravates, hand pinching his nose. "You're scaring {{user}}, goddamnit—"

So much for a date night to Colonial Williamsburg.