The upstairs and downstairs of the house host two juxtaposing scenes:

Speaking to Lilly, Ira is relieved to hear the voice of her best friend- it, providing an escape route for her from the insanity of this household.

With her momentary freedom in full swing, she begins to relax. But of course, Rohan has different plans.

Sounds of clashing utensils carry themselves upstairs and Ira ignores them defiantly until Rohan's voice travels to her: "Iraaaaa, where do we keep the milk?"

"The breastfeeding one?"

"Yeah, I guess that will do."

"What do you mean, that will do? She's only allowed that one."

"Yes, yes, okay. Where do you keep it?" Rohan cries impatiently.

"Stop looking in the cupboards you idiot. Look in the fridge."

"Oh, okay. Yeah, found it." Without a thank you, he leaves.

"Awwwwww, look at the lovey couple banter. That's so cute: he has to ask you the locations of everything. That's sweet." Lilly, upon overhearing the quarrel, cooes into the receiver.

If only she knew.

"Yeah... it's great banter." Grimaces and Winces.

Abruptly, there is silence. 

Abruptly, there is a raucous hurricane of sound erupting from the bottom floor of the house. Included in this turmoil, is Ira's daughter's screams.

"Oooh, ooh, looks like big Daddy did something wrong," Lilly giggles into the phone.

"Haha, yes. Look, I should probably go in case he accidentally freaking kills the girl." If only Lilly knew the harsh truth embedded in clear view of that sentence.

"Yes, yes. Go. Save your child! By--"

Without waiting for the other side to hang up, the call is cut and Ira storms down the stairs.

The screams haven't stopped and a ringing sound accompanies them in Ira's pierced ears.

She checks every place on the bottom floor to find the pair. Living room: empty. Dining room: Empty. Bathroom: Empty. 

Kitchen: overcrowded.

Anger and shock shatter in Ira's vision; fear and shock shatter in the baby's vision. For both, harsh reds colour their eyes and faces, powering the screams ejected by all. 

Rohan attempts to shield his ears from the massacre, but he can't.

His probable dirty deed won't let him.

His hands are full holding the bundle of joy and grief, casually yet strenuously poised over the boiling milk placed on the stove.

Upon viewing Ira, he begins to lower her tender daughter into the spitting milk, providing her solace from life within her own mother's milk. It's an ironic crime.

The girl reaches the edge of the bowl. 

Her fragile toes brush past the scorching rims. 

The screams get worse and worse; they become deafening and soon, it's impossible to recognise who is generating them. Ira, or her daughter. Like mother, like daughter?

Regardless, Rohan continues.

"ROHAN. DON'T. YOU. FUCKING. DAREEEEEE." Anger mixes with adrenaline, fear mixes with power and they combine to create a figure more powerful than God himself: a mother.

Her true colours protruding, she dives at Rohan, tackling him to the floor and rolling away from him, her bundle of joy wrapped, unscathed, in her burnt arms.

The screams stop instantaneously.