Sara has spent two hours and nine minutes tossing and turning on the bed. She rolls her eyes in exasperation, Leonardo still hasn’t got the Oscar Award. She dips a freshly baked cinnamon roll in peanut butter, cramming it into her mouth. Abruptly,the chandelier lights flicker and than darkness fills the room. The end,her younger sister applauds. Brat,she mumbles to herself and makes her way to the drive way slamming the creaky door behind. Drive way has always been her favourite place,when she was little,she used to draw crimson hearts and abstract patterns on its cemented walls but now black roses are the only perplexing pieces of artwork she is left with. She gasps at the thought of driving to the airport and wishes to make her way out of the debris but, all in vain. As she twirls the key into the car,the engine roars to life. Pulling the car out of the drive way was a daunting thing but now she is driving,her eyes fixed on the freeway. The city looks crestfallen,the pubs and presidential buildings all submerged in a thick smog.The clean prosperous streets are propelled by protests and blackouts. In a year circumstances revolted,deliberately things don’t work out her way any more. There is a knock and next a pistol pressed to her temple.
Fate played cards on a crooked table or perhaps made reservations for enchanting chronicles of despair.

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