Suddenly, everyone in the theater was throwing popcorn. Then came the drinks. Then the seats flew off their hinges. People thumped as their asses hit the sticky floor.
Daphne was delighted.
People panicked. The lights blinked on and off, the characters in the movie started shouting “HIS FAULT. NOT MINE. CHUCK. CHUCK DID THIS. NOT ME. HIIIIIIIIM.”
I’d had enough. I told him to stop.
Skip was shaking.
“I wanna go home,” he squeaked.
I nodded. There was no way I could rightfully force him to stay.
Just then a chilling voice crept up behind us, startling us both.
“Skip stays,” the Voice said.
Daphne was holding the Chef’s knife.
…
My terrorized expression was visible through the lens of her pupils. I’d already had a close encounter with a sharp knife. My wife perished because of it. Now this?
Daphne inched closer. The knife’s blade aimed at my throat. This wasn’t how I wanted to die. Not at the hands of my beautiful daughter. I prepared for the worst. Beside me, Skip was convulsing. For a moment, I actually pitied him.
Daphne snorted, bringing my full attention back to her. Drool leaked from her face. The knife held firmly in her freckled hand. She seemed more like a zombie than a daughter.
“Your fault,” she said, wiping the drool from her face. “You did this to me.”
My mind exploded like shattered glass. My daughter was the Voice. I should’ve known.
Daphne crept closer.
I took a tentative step back. So did Skip. Except, in doing so, he tripped over the edge of the carpet and tumbled backwards, doing a full somersault before landing face down.
Daphne roared. “Ha ha. Skip fell down. Soooo funny.”
In between bouts of sobbing, Skip managed a chuckle.
“Dance,” she ordered, waiving the knife like a maniac.
Skip wiped the snot from his runny nose and picked a zit, seemingly at the same time.
“DANCE.”
The radio roared to life. Some pop song appeared out of nowhere. Skip danced. It was pitiful to watch. His shell of a body limbered loosely to the sound of cheesy pop music. His eyes never left the blade.
Neither did mine.
The radio changed channels. The local rock station was playing Seven Nation Army. Skip’s dancing intensified with each distorted guitar lick. Daphne made awful grunting noises, swinging her free hand in the air, like at a rock concert.
She pointed the knife at Skip. Skip danced until the final guitar riff, then Daphne grew bored. She yawned. Then she curled up, cat-like on the couch. Sleep took her away. The knife lay on her lap, daring me to make my move.
Skip thudded as he fell to the floor.
Too afraid to speak, I signaled him to go home, which he did. Faster than you can say: Get me the hell out of here.
I slept with one eye open. When sleep finally came, my dreams were hijacked by the Voice: “YOUR FAULT, CHUCK. YOU MUST PAY. YOU DID THIS….”
When I awoke, Daphne was gone.
…
Fortunately, it was the weekend, so I wasn’t working. The first thing I did that was contact Nurse Jodie, praying she had some free time.
She did. Seeing as how her workplace was lying under a pile of rubble, she took some much-needed vacation time. But did she want to spend that time with me?
She did. She came straight over.
“Where she at?” the nurse demanded.
I shook my head.
“Think, Mr. Draper. She’s still your daughter.”
I had no clue where she would have gone. Except…
“Skip,” we said simultaneously.
I texted him, warning him to be on the lookout for Daphne. While waiting for the response, Nurse Jodie told me her story:
Jodie grew up in the Bible Belt. It was a normal upbringing. That is until her sixteenth birthday, when her mom went to the store for supplies. While doing so, she’d witnessed a violent killing spree. Some lunatic held up the General Store, murdering a pair of newlyweds and the proprietor, point blank. Blew their brains to Smithereens. Her mother knew these people, they were her neighbors. Now their guts were tangled in her hair.
Her mother went into shock, and collapsed (probably what saved her life.) When she regained consciousness, she remembered nothing of her life up to that moment. Not her daughter, her husband; nor her job or her home. Zilch. Yes she remembered her dead parents, and parts of her childhood, but this somehow made it worse.
This is called retrograde amnesia. Jodie watched in quiet agony as her mother suffered through it. Meanwhile, she also had to deal with her unruly father, who’d become a nasty drunk.
Her home life was unbearable. Her parents were constantly at war. Her father couldn’t accept her condition, and took to seeing outside woman. Although her mother had amnesia, she wasn’t stupid. She became furious. On Jodie’s last day of high school, her mother killed her father, then turned the gun onto herself.
Jodie discovered their bloodied bodies, lying in a pool of blood, their brains splattered across the walls and carpet. There was a note: ‘remember those who loved you.’
Long story short: Jodie devoted her life to helping others by becoming a nurse. Apparently, Daphne’s story touched her heart. To this I was grateful. Without the nurse, there’s no telling what I’d do.
“Skip’s in danger,” she said flatly.
It had been an hour since my text, still no reply. We left, taking the nurse’s minivan. Safe but reliable, right? The scene outside Skip’s trailer park home was ridiculous. His mother, clad in track pants and a pink tank top, was waving a sprinkler over her head, having a tantrum.
Daphne thought this was the funniest thing on earth. She was egging her on. Skip had his hands shoved so deep into his pockets, that one would assume he’d reach China any minute now.
The fun stopped when we pulled up.
Daphne glared.
“Him! This is HIS fault,” she pointed to me, full of rage.
The Voice went on a rampage, filling all of time and space: “HIS FAULT, HIS FAULT, HIS FAULT…”
Skip put his hands over his ears, crying “No more. No more…”
The nurse jumped out of the van and rushed toward them, Chuck Norris style. Daphne stood her ground. Before she could get a word in, the nurse tackled her to the ground.
Daphne grunted and groaned, but was easily subdued.
The nurse’s meaty hands covered Daphne’s mouth. Her legs, as big as mountains, trapping Daphne underneath. As quick as you can say “Stick em up!” the nurse produced handcuffs. My deranged daughter was shackled.
By now a crowd gathered.
“Ouch!”
Daphne bit the nurse. Blood trickled down the nurse’s python-like arms. Next to them, Skip was freaking out, his hands glued to his ears. The Voice was decimating him.
“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it STOOOOOOOP.”
I turned to my daughter, still trapped underneath the nurse. “Daphne. STOP IT!”
Skip’s body folded like a cheap suit. Snot and puss were sliding down his riveted face, while he fetched his glasses.
The nurse dragged Daphne to her feet.
“You’re coming with us.”
With the strength of a football team, she moved my daughter, kicking and screaming, to the back of the van; the large door groaned as it slammed shut. Me and Skip followed, tail between our legs.
The crowd cheered as we drove away.
I wanted to ask where we were going, or what the plan was, but smartly kept quiet. This was her gig now.
Skip sat morosely next to Daphne, as dejected as a flat tire. Daphne, on the other had, was enjoying the ride.
“Car!” she shouted, like an infant.
Just then an oncoming car skidded off the road and crashed.
The nurse stepped on the gas.
“Truck!” said Daphne.
An eighteen-wheeler turned suddenly, crashing into the guard rail: SCREEEEECH.
A spectacle of sparks flew like fireworks. Cars slammed their brakes; horns honked, drivers cursed, fingers flipped. It was a modern-day symphony.
“Holy shitballs,” Skip managed to say.
Daphne was delighted.
I glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, her eyes were like fireflies. Clearly, she was having a ball.
The nurse cranked the wheel; we pulled off the freeway onto an anonymous side road, leaving the collision course behind us.
Up ahead was a dirt road, surrounded by waist-high weeds and endless forest. We took it. We bumped our way along the nameless road for an undisclosed amount of time, until we reached a cabin.
I’d lived in this part of the world all my life; I never knew this place existed.
The van stopped in front of the cabin.
“Wait here.”
Nurse Jodie stepped out of the vehicle in one easy movement, then disappeared.
“I wanna go home,” Skip pouted, folding his long and lanky arms.
“Do something funny.” Daphne snapped.
Skip pouted.
“NOW.”
Skip sat upright, scratched his head.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” he said, leaving a dramatic pause. “How the hell would I know? I ain’t no chicken!”
Daphne snickered. “More jokes,” she demanded, in a hollowed voice.
Skip’s face twisted into a scowl. He started jerking back and forth, looking sicker than ever. Without warning, his acne exploded. Blood and puss and dried skin oozed from his face, saturating the back of the van.
“Gross!” Daphne said, smiling profusely. “Do something else.”
Before I could interject, Skip pulled off his decimated tee-shirt. He wiped the bloodied gore from his face and seats, then reapplied his filthy shirt inside out.
“Pizza Boy!” Daphne proclaimed.
Skip’s bottom lip quivered.
“Daphne,” I shouted, against my better judgement. “Stop it. You’re hurting him.”
Her furious eyes found mine.
“YOUR FAULT, CHUCK.”
She raised her hands simultaneously, the cuffs clanked.
Suddenly, my body coursed with electricity. I convulsed, as my brains turned to mush. How was she doing this?
The driver’s door opened; the nurse barged in.
She frowned. “Oh no you don’t.”
Nurse Jodie rushed to the back door and removed Daphne with one strong hand.
“You’ve been a very bad girl,” she said, holding a white straitjacket. She had my daughter secured in seconds.
Daphne screamed; the shrubs behind the cabin burst into flames.
“Oh no you don’t,” the nurse repeated. She grabbed a fire repellent from the trunk, and quickly subdued the fire.
I sighed, having seen enough fire to last me a lifetime.
The nurse motioned us to the cabin. Skip and I shared a look of concern, but did as we were told. The stone steps leading to the cabin door wobbled under foot. The surrounding trees loomed like large shadows, birdsong filled the afternoon air, mocking our misfortune.
The modest kitchen consisted of an icebox that was older than rock and roll, no table and only one chair, which seemed as sturdy as a unicycle; a chesterfield as old as dirt nestled in the cramped living room. A small fireplace with a kerosene lamp took up much of the adjacent wall. Cobwebs covered every inch of the cabin.
Things took a turn for the worse.
Beside me, Skip was deteriorating. He started convulsing, speaking in tongues. The nurse tossed him on the couch, and administered a strong sedative. Withing minutes, Skip was out cold.
That left the three of us.
Daphne didn’t know what to make of the nurse, nor the bondage she found herself in. She started cursing and swearing and thrashing about. Fortunately, Nurse Jodie was as tough as stale bread.
She had Daphne fastened to the fireplace in seconds flat. Something told me that was a bad idea, but my better sense told me to zip it.
While I settled next to sleeping Skip on the couch, the nurse fired up the generator, which was in the shed around back. I took a moment to look around.
Something was terribly wrong with this cabin. It was crammed with boxes stuffed with syringes, steely utensils, drugs, and gadgets I knew nothing of.
As she moseyed outside, singing under her breath, something dawned on me: Maybe the nurse wasn’t so altruistic after all. Maybe this was HER fault.
On cue, she re-entered the cabin carrying a roll of duct tape and a fresh pair of handcuffs. Before I could react, I was restrained.
“You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Draper.” Her voice was unsympathetic. “This is your new home now.”
I protested.
She clubbed me over the head with a blunt object. A sky of stars surrounded my field of vision. Then I passed out.
When I awoke, it was full-dark. I was alone.