A/N: Umm… this twisted little ficlet is…strange. The idea for it was conceived while in the car at a gas station and then written at three or four in the morning. Lovely combination. Enjoy, and reviews are always loved, appreciated, praised, etc.

            “Melissa! Turn off that music right now!” called and angry female voice from the end of the pale-blue carpeted hallway of a typical suburban middle class home.

            “But Maman, I don’t want to! The music makes me happy.” Replied a shy soprano voice from the other end of the hall.

            “I don’t care it if makes you happy. IT gives mea headache. And don’t call me ‘Maman.’ You’re not French. Call me ‘mom’ like a normal person.” Melissa knew that there was no arguing with her mother and reluctantly prodded the power button with finger. A silence enveloped the room and instantly, she was thrown in to a whirlpool of darkness and despair. Her breath grew short and irregular. She fell to the floor in a state of complete paralysis.  She had known this would happen, but there was nothing she could do about it.

            “Hmmm, that’s better,” said her mother. “Melissa, come here and get your laundry.” But Melissa could not hear. She was still lying paralyzed on the floor of her room.

            “Melissa! I’m not going to call you again! Get your ass in here or I’ll ground you until you’re fifty!” Melissa never heard these threats. Her ears were ringing with the sound of her pain.

            “Melissa!” Her mother yelled as she stomped into the room. At the sight of her daughter collapsed on the floor unable to move, Melissa’s mother gasped. She touched Melissa’s arm, but drew back quickly as if she has been burnt. Melissa’s skin has the cold, waxy texture of a corpse. Melissa’s mother stared around the room in disbelief and her eyes fell on the red light of the stereo. As an experiment, she approached it and pressed the power button. Music streamed out of the speakers. Melissa stood, smiled sheepishly at her mother, and turned away. Her mother pressed pause. Melissa collapsed. Play. She stood up again. Pause. Collapse. Play. Stand. Pause. Collapse.

            “Oh my god!” Melissa’s mother sobbed and raced out of the room. She grabbed the phone and phone book off the coffee table and dialed the first psychologist’s number she saw.

            “Uh, yes, hello? My name is Cara Whitefeld and my daughter has a problem. Yes, I understand lots of people’s daughters have problems. Well, you see, every time someone turns off the music, she collapses and gets near death. Why are you laughing? No, I wasn’t kidding, you bastard!”

            A few days and hundreds of phone calls later, there was still no one who believed Ms. Cara Whitefeld. She and Melissa left the house and were on their way to New York to find someone who might help them. Both piled into the car with plenty of CDs and they set out on their trip. Several miles down the road, they stopped for gas. Pulling into the station, Cara turned off the car- and the music. Melissa collapsed, but her mother was already out of the car and pumping gas. AT some point, Cara did notice that Melissa was collapsed and panicked. She left the pump in the tank and raced over to turn on the car.

            “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said apologetically and patted Melissa’s head.

            Suddenly, the heat from the running engine caused the gasoline to ignite. Cara and Melissa were engulfed in the ensuing inferno and died instantly.

All because of the music.