I left the hospital feeling worse than ever. Bryce’s words were dangling like a noose on a dule tree:
“She’s somebody else.”
The rest of the day was spend arguing with my wife. Things between us were at an all-time low. I was afraid she might hurt herself, or me. She was angry all the time. This will be a tough week, I reminded myself, as she gathered her things to spend another night in Daphne’s room. I watched her shadow disappear under the dying glow of the hallway, and heard the door creak as it closed.
The next day was no better.
Bryce was found dead. Suicide. A gunshot did the trick.
…
Our tiny town was mourning. Two suicides in twenty-four hours will do that to a community. All day, my wife locked herself in Daphne’s room, refusing to leave. It became a self-induced prison cell. I delivered food plates like a prison guard, to which she refused to eat.
Her words were macabre.
“Whole world’s gone mad, Chuck.”
Um, okay.
“And it’s your fault.”
Here we go again.
Guilt has plagued me ever since my daughter’s accident. Tara’s words, coupled with the Voice, made it worse. I was upset, but I let it be. That said, I made an appointment with our family doctor. If only she’d go. In the meantime, I had pressing matters to deal with.
The police arrived early that afternoon, asking about Bryce. I didn’t say much, and when I did speak, I choose my words carefully. I certainly wasn’t going to tell them her final words: “She’s somebody else?” That would make make my daughter a suspect.
That afternoon I dragged myself to the hospital. Yes, I know she needs her space, but leaving her all alone was not an option. A quick visit should suffice. These trips were becoming increasingly abhorrent. But that’s life, right? Daphne’s anguish cannot be understated. Her suffering was far worse than mine. Fortunately, her bones would mend, and this would all soon be over.
Life will return to normal.
This was my mantra, as I endured the convoluted streets, almost being rear-ended by an idiot driving a Beemer, gabbing on his phone. Making matters worse, it rained the entire trip, reminding me of my daughter’s accident. And whose fault it was. Ugh.
The receptionist was new. She looked pleasant enough, but her eyes told a different story. Especially after I introduced myself. She turned ghost-white, as though hearing my daughter’s name would induce a lifetime of terror.
Feeling like a sack of stones, I trudged myself to the elevator, only to be greeted by the Voice.
“You did this to yourself, Chuck. You destroyed your daughter.”
I groaned.
Apparently, the Voice was getting warmed up.
“You’re next, Chuck. You’d better watch yourself.”
The elevator dinged, and I stepped out.
The corridor greeted me like an asylum; spirals zig-zagged across the linoleum floor like snakes and ladders. It was nauseating. Somewhere, an old man was moaning about his long-lost wife. A doctor blew by without a second glance. The closer I got to Daphne’s room, the worse I felt. My legs buckled. I walked like a drunkard, trying to ignore the menacing patterns dancing on the floor.
I knocked before entering.
Daphne’s room was vomitous. The smell was appalling. The only sound was her snoring. Daphne lay corpse-like on the hospital bed, in a full body cast, IV stuck up her nose. I stood at the doorway, conflicted. She looked at peace. Did I really want to enter?
Someone grabbed my shoulder. I jumped.
“Good morning Mr. Draper. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
The nurse’s dark eyes darted across the room. She squinted, as if considering all the possibilities. Then she touched my arm.
“Can I have a word with you?
She led me into the hall. After glancing over her shoulder and mine, she yanked me by the collar. Her strength surprised me.
“Look here, Mr. Draper. I don’t know what’s happening to your little girl. But…” She released me; I sighed and took a much-needed breath. “Since the day she came here, bad things been happening.”
Her eyes were lasers, her fists like hamburgers. She was the toughest nurse I’d ever met. She wiped her brow, then added, “Something ain’t right. You hear about the boy?”
Bryce was Daphne’s BFF. At least in the Before Time. How could I forget?
I nodded.
“Blew his brains out, he did.” She shook her head, disapprovingly. “You know he was here last night?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Think that’s a coincidence?”
My heart was pounding; I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Krista died this morning. You know, the receptionist? Guess how?”
She made her fist into a gun, stuck it to her temple, pulled the trigger.
I choked. The nurse had to whack me on the back to make me stop.
“Listen here,” she snapped. “Two coworkers died. Two! Both by suicide. Now, I don’t believe in coincidences, so let me make one thing clear: If your daughter had anything to do with it – anything – I’ll kill her.”
I collapsed onto the bench opposite the door. I had no words.
The nurse’s face softened. For a minute, she was beautiful. “Look,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse for nearly twenty years. I’ve seen a lot. But nothing like this.”
My face must’ve shown complete and utter despondence, because she reached out her hand, and waited until I finally shook it.
“Name’s Jodie. Nurse Jodie is what most people call me. I’m hear to help. But Lord have mercy if any more people die.”
She walked away shaking her head, entered my little girl’s room. I waited, head in hands, weeping.
The Voice spoke up.
“I don’t trust her.”
The floor slithered; blood oozed from the cracks in the linoleum. A crimson stream of gore glided towards me, soaking my shoes.
Fear stole over me. How do I remove bloodstains from sneakers? How is this even possible? I closed my eyes and counted to ten. It took forever. My eyes flashed open; the blood was gone.
Was it ever there?
Shouting was coming from Daphne’s room; she was screaming like a banshee. I stood up abruptly and forced myself to get moving. When I entered the room, the nurse was fumbling with her clipboard.
“She doesn’t want visitors.”
I ignored the nurse. Instead, I handed Daphne her favorite necklace, plus an assortment of knickknacks she’d kept in the treasure box buried in her closet. Sneaking them past my wife took a mountain of courage. Daphne looked away, so I placed the items on the bedside table. Her stuffed donkey was missing, so were the flowers.
Daphne grunted.
Nurse Jodie piped in. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
“Go to hell.” Daphne’s voice could peel the paint off a bicycle.
The nurse winced, shot me a look that said ‘good luck,’ scribbled some notes onto her clipboard, then split.
“Hi Daph.” My tongue knotted like a ball of yarn.
“Go away,” she said. “You’re not my father.”
A bullet entered my brain and lodged there, but I didn’t let it show. Be brave, I told myself. Grudgingly, I sat next to her bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in my buttocks. Next time, I’ll bring cushions. Maybe a paperback. That way I can sit here and read, and we won’t have to talk.
Daphne’s boorish breathing sounded like a Harley. Every time I tried to speak, I stopped myself. There’s no point. Simply being here is the best I could do, for the time being at least. Unfortunately, her smell hadn’t improved. It was atrocious.
Someone entered.
My daughter bolted upright.
“Skip!”
The room went silent.
This pimply-faced teenage boy strolled towards her bed with all the arrogance in the world.
“Hey Daphne,” he squeaked.
His glasses made his eyes look alien. The greasy hair poking from his ballcap was the color of rust.
I disliked him immediately.
He offered my daughter a disposable cup.
“Brought you some coffee. And a straw.”
Her eyes brightened. For the first time since the accident, she smiled.
“You remember this guy?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Why wouldn’t she?” He said in a puny voice.
I’d never seen him before, nor had I heard of anyone named Skip.
“Skip the Joker,” Daphne said, matter-of-factly.
Skip was gangly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, as if digging for gold. His freckled nose twitched at the overpowering stench coming from the hospital bed.
For a moment, nobody moved. It was a showdown. Just then the door flew open and the nurse charged in, her interrogating eyes scrutinized the visitor. Her expression made one thing abundantly clear: She didn’t trust Skip the Joker any more than I did.
She said, “It’s time for Daphne to get cleaned up. Today’s a busy day for her.”
Skip was staring at Daphne with wonder. His acne-riddled face showing mixed signs: He seemed proud to be in her presence; he wanted something.
“Are you two friends?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, most certainly,” he boasted. “Best friends. We’re a hoot.”
Daphne laughed. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Two more nurses arrived, and quickly moved us along. Visiting time was over. I sighed, and whispered goodbye to my daughter, who continued rambling on about Skip the Joker.
I grabbed Skip, and forced him into the hallway.
“Talk.”
He looked flabbergasted.
“Look, you’re the only person she remembers. And sorry to say this, but you weren’t her best friend. Daphne never spoke of you. You weren’t even invited to her birthday party. So…”
His face went as red as a pimple. His shoulders slumped.
“But I’ve had a crush on her since freshman year. I love Daphne.”
My blood was boiling. I was furious. In truth, I was devastated. Why would she remember this guy, and not me? He’s a dweeb.
The nurse stepped out looking exasperated.
“She won’t shut up about Skip the Joker.” Her eyes tore him to shreds. “I tried reasoning with her. She spat at me, called me nasty names.” She shook her head shamefully.
She faced Skip, who couldn’t contain his excitement. “I don’t know who you are.” She dug her fatty finger into his chest. “But you better pray she doesn’t turn on you. Cuz if she does…”
With that, she hurried down the hallway, disappearing into another room.
Skip’s demeanor told me everything: He was a loser. A loser in love with my gorgeous daughter. When I walked him to the elevator, he wouldn’t shut up about Daphne. I had to bite my tongue. Heck, I even offered him a ride home, to which he refused. I didn’t blame him. You’re not allowed to accept rides from strangers anymore.
I drove home in a fury, worrying about my daughter, wondering who Skip the Joker really was. Seems like the joke’s on me. Worse, my wife refused to answer my texts. This was getting ridiculous. I prayed she was okay. Somehow, I knew she wasn’t.
When I pulled into the driveway, all hell broke loose.
The blinds were drawn. The yard was in disarray. Inside was worse. It looked like a bomb had detonated. The closets were pillaged; the contents scattered across the floor. Shoes were everywhere. A hammer was sticking out of the TV. The couch overturned. Food boxes left open; the milk jug slumped over the counter top, leaking ashen fluid onto the marble floor.
None of this worried me.
No, what troubled me were the knives. They’d been placed neatly onto the kitchen table, forming a pentagram. All the knives were out, except one: the Chef’s knife. It was the sharpest knife in the house. A knife that could skin a bear.
“Honey?” I called out. My voice sounded weak.
The house was a tomb.
I tiptoed upstairs; the stairs creaked in protest, warning me to turn around. I should have listened. Instead, I maneuvered around the discarded items: socks, toothbrushes, Daphne’s laptop, her alarm clock. The house was in chaos.
Still, no word from my wife.
I knew she was here; her coat and shoes lie like evidence at the foot of the door. She was here all right. But in what state of mind?
All the doors were open except one.
I knocked on Daphne’s bedroom door.
“Go away!”
My wife’s voice cut me in two.
I clutched the door handle.
The Voice arrived just in time.
“You’re going to die, Chuck.”
I pushed aside the Voice, opened the door.
The room was a disaster. Daphne’s clothes scattered across the floor; her posters ripped down. Her dresser had been disparaged, along with everything in it. Beads and bracelets and undergarments everywhere. Scribbled across the walls in ruby-red marker were the same two words sifting through my mind at that very moment:
CHUCK’S FAULT
Tara sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, rocking. The knife was held to her throat.
“Woah, settle down, Hon,” I managed to say.
Tara’s eyes were deranged. Drool frothed around her lips, like a thirsty dog.
“You!” She pointed the long silver blade at me. “You’re to blame.”
“Yes I am,” I said, choking on my words. “But…”
“BUT NOTHING.”
Her nightgown was torn to shreds. Cut marks shrouded her body.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out, so I took a cautionary step backwards and tripped on a toy bunny.
My wife chortled. The steely knife glistening under the florescent lighting, pointed at me.
“You must die.”
Her voice was just above a whisper; her face twisted in rage.
She came at me with alarming speed, knife first. She lunged. Just as the massive knife was about to plunge into my solar plexus, she tripped. She fell directly onto the blade. Blood exploded.
“Tara!”
Dark crimson slime oozed from her body like a slaughtered pig. Blood was everywhere. The entire bedroom floor was painted red. I turned her over and gasped. The knife had wedged deep into her abdomen. Her stomach was sliced open, her intestines leaking like a split-open sausage. Tara’s eyes were open, but lifeless.
I rushed to the washroom and vomited.
When I reentered the bedroom, panic turned to alarm.
I called 911.
The police arrived unceremoniously.
I spent the night in a jail cell, for the murder of my wife.