Daddy's Little Princess

CHAPTER TWO- Don

"Nothing R rated, right?"

"No, Dad. It's PG-13. It's that new chick flick that just came out, Red Roses on White Pillows."

"And Destiny's mom is driving you home?"

She glanced out the window to where her three friends less than patiently awaited her company. "Yeah, Dad. She'll drive me home when it's over."

"All right. Well, have a good time." I pushed a crisp twenty into her palm; that should be enough for snacks since her ticket was already paid for. "I love you, Tabby Cat."

She smiled at the bill, then at me. "I love you too, Daddy. Thanks!"

I parked in the driveway, navigated the winding walkway to the front porch, and slid the key into the keyway, only to find out that Tabby had forgotten to lock the door again. I flicked on the porch light; it would be dusk by the time her "chick flick" let out.

It was hard being home alone. This creaky old house had an eerie feeling about it when there was too much stillness, too much silence, and not enough Tabby. She made everything better. Her presence in and of itself had the power to repel the ghosts that Miranda had left behind. They were trapped within these walls, still smelling of her sweet, floral perfume. Icy shivers slicked down my spine. Without Tabby here, the ghosts haunted to no end. I knew on the drive home that tonight would be no different, that they would come in full force, but somehow it was different. The silence was louder than ever. Their menacing tales were spoken in shrills, heard from every fragment of darkness where they lurked and taunted.

At first, it was the rabid ferocity in her eyes when one of her "moods" hit that they wouldn't let me forget. It was the bulging carotid that would herald the next round of accusations. The flaming tongue stringed with choice curses. The white-knuckled fists that paled that of a gang member's in the heat of retaliation. The wrath that was hotter, deeper, fiercer than even the depths of Hell.

But now? Now it was the bright red blood weeping from parted flesh. The evil glint in her feral eyes right before she came a martyr to her own twisted cause. It was the screams for help, the betrayal, the satisfied air about her when they loaded her into the ambulance. The cuffs had hurt, but all this hurt more.

I made a loop of the first floor, switching on every light, even in the bathroom, to curb the strength of the shadows and choke out the haunting images of those ghastly tales. They quieted, but not completely. The TV would do well to counter some of the deadness. I switched that on, too. A commercial promising Rogaine's miraculous hair restoring affects filled the bone-chilling void.

The light in the kitchen wasn't the brightest, and TV or no, I still couldn't shake the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. All I needed was the creepy Psycho theme song and you had the opening of your typical, gory slasher flick. It opens on a middle-aged guy, completely oblivious to what lies in wait. The audience, sitting on the edge of their theater seats, knows the guy won't survive. He should have known not to go down that hall, or open that door, we all think.

I abandoned the thought as best I could, and reveled the temporary brilliance of the fridge's bulb when I pulled out a Miller Lite and a Tupperware of leftover spaghetti. The microwave hummed as the turntable rotated tonight's fare, then it announced the completion of the reheating cycle with a few beeps. I purposed to make as much noise as possible as I plated my meal and popped the tab on my beer.

Kicking back the leg rest of my recliner, I was guaranteed by the male voiceover that Red Roses on White Pillows would move me to tears and remind me that love was never out of reach. I rolled my eyes. Sure, I'd be moved to something all right, but it would be more akin to regurgitated spaghetti than tears.

My cell vibrated beside me. A text from Tabby read: DESTINY'S MOM WANTS TO TAKE US OUT FOR ICE CREAM AFTER THE MOVIE. IS THAT OK?

I typed: NO PROBLEM. HAVE FUN, TC.

"Breaking news just in," the attractive anchorwoman reported after the movie trailer ended. "Legendary Falls State Mental Facility has reported that three patients have escaped earlier this evening, and while two have been apprehended, one is still at large. Authorities are trying to determine how these patients managed to breach security and a manhunt is underway for the remaining escapee. We have Martin Cleeve on scene with more of the story. Martin, what measures are being . . ."

I jumped when the phone rang, nearly choking on the swig of beer I couldn't swallow down; the anchorwoman had me breathless at Mental Facility.

I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

"Are you watching the news?"

I couldn't answer at first. The T.V. reporter was standing right outside the gates to the mental hospital Miranda has been held since the night she tried to frame me, but where ex-wives had the power to lie, security cameras gave the final testimony. "Yeah, it's on right now," I told her.

"Do you think . . . ?" She couldn't finish.

"No, they said she's pretty doped up most of the time." Regretful silence made me pause. "Sorry, I didn't mean to . . . "

"It's okay. Well, I just wanted to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine." It was only a half lie; physically I was all right, but emotionally, mentally . . . I was a train that wrecked on a train wreck. I purposed to tune out Martin The Reporter as much as possible. "I'd love some company. Busy?"

"Where's Tabby?"

"She's at the movies with some girlfriends."

"Oh. Listen, I would come over, but I have plans."

I frowned. "Another date with Jeff?"

She didn't answer.

"I thought you were going to stop seeing him?"

Still, no reply.

I said, "Well, I guess I'll talk to you later then. I love you."

"I love you, too. I'll come over tomorrow. Promise."

I pulled the phone away from my ear, but just before I could hit END, I heard my name called into the emptiness.

"Hey, Don?"

I pushed the phone back to my ear. "Yeah?"

"I'm- I'm really sorry about what happened. With you and Miranda. I feel like it's my fault. No, I know it is. I-"

"It's not your fault," I corrected. "Miranda changed. That's it. She's sick and I'm just glad she's able to get the care she needs now."

I hung up shortly after that, hating that she blamed herself for my divorce, but mostly I hated that she refused to end her relationship with this Jeff guy. It grated at me in the worst way. I felt on edge and so, so alone in this old house. I was trapped with too many memories I wished I could forget. But nothing would let me forget. Miranda's perfume permeated more strongly than ever, and the ghosts shrilled out their horrifying tales more loudly than ever. I just wished they would shut the hell up and leave me in peaceful solitude.