MAD DOG
?005 The Angst Guy (theangstguy@yahoo.com)
Daria and associated characters are ?005 MTV Networks
Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com
Synopsis: A Halloween tale from an alternate Daria universe: There shall be done a deed of dreadful note (William Shakespeare, Macbeth, III, ii, 40.)
Author抯 Notes: This story began with Ioxmo抯 Iron Chef challenge in October 2005 to write a Daria fanfic in which a character抯 hidden obsession was exposed. It drew upon many other sources, particularly Richard Lobinske抯 story, 揅hosin Fate? websites about Ka-Bar fighting knifes and the U.S. Army Rangers in the Korean War; websites about self-mutilation among teenage girls; details on Highland High from the Beavis and Butt-head show; character data harvested from James 揅INCGREEN?Bowman抯 stupendous 揇aria Encyclopedia 0.0?(http://dariaencyclopedia.blogspot.com/), the equally stunning 揇aria Character Database?created by Mike Yamiolkoski and hosted at Kemical Reaxion抯 Glitter Berries website (http://www.glitterberries.com/tvdb/TVIndex.htm), and Glenn Eichler抯 first Q&A session with Kara Wild from 3/16/05 (http://www.the-wildone.com/dvdaria/glennanswers.html); MTV抯 Virtual Lawndale webpage (http://www.mtv.com/onair/daria/lawndale/); episode scripts from Outpost Daria (http://www.outpost-daria.com/) for 揓ake of Hearts,?揙f Human Bonding,?揚(yáng)sycho Therapy,?揑s It Fall Yet??and 揃oxing Daria? my book of Shakespeare; and, of course, Harlan Ellison tale, 揟he Deathbird,?winner of the 1974 Hugo Award for science fiction.
Acknowledgements: My thanks to Ioxmo for the challenge, and to the four Angst Lords memorialized 揳t the corner of MacGillicutty Street and Wright Avenue, next to the storefront church with the broken-winged angel on the sidewalk outside,?across the street from the Renfield Building.
I
牋牋牋牋牋?She was twelve when she found it, up in the attic on a lazy Saturday afternoon when everyone else at her grandmother抯 house was dozing or watching TV. It lay at the bottom of a musty cedar trunk, under a pile of neatly folded Army uniforms and shoeboxes full of newspaper clippings and black-and-white photos from the 1950s. Beside it was a felt-lined wooden box that held an unloaded .45 Colt, a paper bag full of sew-on unit and rank insignia, a green case with three medals nestled inside on white silk, and an old map of Korea on which someone had penciled in arrows, crosses, and notes like ?/51?and 揌Q12NKD?and 揜ay died here.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?It was the only thing that registered in her vision. She picked it up, alert to the possibility of unwelcome footsteps on the attic stairs. Sweat dripped from her auburn hair and spotted the dust on it. It was sheathed in deerskin with the initials 揗.D.M.?stamped on the outside. The leather-wrapped handle was five inches long and well worn. The black single-edged carbon-steel blade was seven inches and still had an edge. She ran a finger along the serrated blade and flinched at the sting. A bead of dark red swelled from the cut before she stuck her finger in her mouth. When the tangy taste of blood was gone, she put every item back into the trunk as neatly as could be, every item but one, and went back downstairs to the guest room where she and her sister were staying. Her sister was watching TV in another room and saw nothing.
牋牋牋牋牋?When her family departed Grandma Ruth抯 at the end of that summer weekend, the knife went with her, hidden inside a sock at the bottom of her suitcase. On the way home, her father ranted about his miserable childhood, her mother worked on legal papers from her office, and her younger sister listened to pop radio on pink earphones, head nodding and face blank, same as ever.
牋牋牋牋牋?She who had taken the knife, however, looked out the window at the trees and houses and fences and farms, noticing nothing. She thought about how big the knife had felt in her hand, the killing knife that had belonged to her father抯 father, U. S. Army Ranger Sergeant Matthias Daniel Morgendorffer, 1st Ranger Infantry Company (Airborne), veteran of Chipyong-Ni and the Chinese Communists?May Massacre, the man that others had called Mad Dog.
牋牋牋牋牋?She had never met him. He had died after her parents?wedding, almost twenty years ago, but her father talked so often of him, she felt his presence even in the air she breathed.
牋牋牋牋牋?The knife had felt strange in her hand, not comfortable, not right. Her grip was small, her handling unskilled. Yet there was a connection that could not be explained, a click. And now it was hers.
牋牋牋牋牋?She thought about it all the way home. Everything seemed to be normal.
牋牋牋牋牋?Click.
II
牋牋牋牋牋?揟hank you so much for coming in this evening, Mr. and Mrs. Morgendorffer,?said Mr. van Driessen, nervously shaking their hands. He took a seat behind his desk and shuffled through a thin sheaf of papers. 揇aria is of course one of our most gifted students here at Highland High, if not the most棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揇amn right she is!?her father said. 揘othing wrong with her! Not like those idiot elementary-school teachers, always calling us in and complaining Daria was this or Daria was that, when there was nothing wrong with棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揓ake!?hissed her mother, elbowing her father in the side. Fifteen-year-old Daria sat beside her mother and doodled in a notebook, trying to ignore the proceedings. She wore a black denim jacket and a knee-length red skirt with boots.
牋牋牋牋牋?揢h, right, exactly. A great kid.?Mr. van Driessen cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. 揙ur resident Shakespearean. Creative use of . . . ah, invective. However, the reason I抳e asked for a conference is because of some of her recent writings, which棓
牋牋牋牋牋?A portable phone rang. Her father gave her mother a pained look.
牋牋牋牋牋?揑 bet that抯 the office,?said her mother, reaching into her purse. 揓ust a moment.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Mr. van Driessen groaned and turned to her father. 揗r. Morgendorffer棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揓ake,?said her father grandly. 揧ou can call me Jake. Always glad to help.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揜ight, uh, Jake, and you can call me David. Now, your daughter was asked last week to write a one-page short story about love, and she turned in . . . this.?The teacher passed a single notebook page to her father. The paper was covered with red-pen markings. Daria looked up from her paper scrap, saw the page in question, and sighed. She returned to her scribbles.
牋牋牋牋牋?搼Red Nightmare,挃 her father said aloud, reading the story抯 title. 揥ow! That would make a great movie, wouldn抰 it? 慠ed Nightmare? Isn抰 she the best??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?The teacher winced and pointed to the paper, briefly eyeing Mrs. Morgendorffer, who was laughing at something someone had said over her cell phone. 揧es, certainly, but梡lease read the story, uh, Jake. It抯 really quite . . . I don抰 know how to describe it, it抯 very . . . violent, I suppose you could say, very棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揌uh,?said her father, glancing at the paper. He turned to his wife. 揌elen! Helen, can you read this? Someone抯 written all over it in red ink, and I can抰 make out anything beyond the first couple棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揓ake! I抦 on the phone! Can抰 you wait??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揝ee,?said Mr. van Driessen, raising his voice, 搃nstead of a love story, Daria抯 written a story about, well, um, murder, a very violent sort of, ah, revenge fantasy, I guess you could call it, and the part at the end where the spy lady, Powers, traps her unfaithful lover who turns out to be a Communist agent, and, she uh, um, uses her, uh, Bowie knife to, uh, slice into his, ah棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揌elen,?said Jake in a whiney tone, 揻or just one moment, could we work on parenting together??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揓ust handle it, Jake! I抦 listening to a recorded deposition and they don抰 have time to rewind it!?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揙h, that抯 the way it is, huh? Let Jakey handle it? Well, Jakey抯 going to handle it, all right!?Her father stood up and tossed the paper back on the teacher抯 desk. 揗y daughter抯 perfect as she is! She could write for television and anything she did would be better than the gah-damn crappy crap they put on every night that抯 thinly disguised as entertainment crap! What is it with people that they don抰 understand good writing??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Half-hearing her father抯 latest rant without actually listening to it, Daria frowned. She had just doodled something odd. It would not have happened if she had not finished reading a science-fiction short-story collection that included Harlan Ellison抯 award-winning story, 揟he Deathbird,?and it would not have happened if she did not so vividly remember the impromptu quiz in the middle of the story that began with the question, 揑s there any significance to the reversal of the word god being dog? If so, what??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?There in her notebook, in her ninth-grade English classroom with her parents and teacher present, she had just written out two words, MAD DOG, and then reversed them to spell GOD DAM.
牋牋牋牋牋?How odd, she thought in surprise. I never once thought about?/i>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑f Corporal Ellenbogen had known anything at all about musicals, I抎 be on Broadway myself, right now!?shouted her father. 揃ut nooo, little Jakey抯 not good enough to write musicals for Buxton Ridge Military Academy, oh no! And what does my old man say? What does he say when I call home because they抳e short-sheeted my bed for the third time that week??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揗r. Morgendorffer?i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Jake梩here抯 something else I wanted to speak with you about.?Van Driessen glanced uneasily at Daria, who gave him an unreadable look in return. 揑抦 concerned about . . . well, Daria is such an incredible student, I agree, and a gifted writer, but she seems so dedicated to, um, perfect performance, and . . . and she抯 not very forgiving of her mistakes, and . . . does she seem a little stressed to you??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揥hat??Her father sat down and looked Daria over. The image of boredom, Daria flipped the page in her notebook to conceal her previous doodles. She glanced at her father and shrugged before looking down at her paper again.
牋牋牋牋牋?揥ell, I抦 aware that she is rather intense but still a fairly temperate person, I can抰 recall ever seeing her laugh or cry or anything, though she did smile once when we were talking about, uh, electrocution, not that there抯 anything wrong with that, but we at the school recently received from the state board of education a list of all the warning signs of棓 Mr. van Driessen swallowed and nervously pulled his short beard 摋of things like, um, depression棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揙h, Daria抯 not depressed!?said her father. 揝he抯 just quiet. Lots of smart kids are quiet. I think.?He gave his eldest daughter an uneasy look. 揧ou抮e not depressed, are you, kiddo??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria rolled her eyes. 揂m I depressed about being in this school??she said in a monotone. 揑n this town? With my family??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揟here, told ya!?her father told her teacher with a grin.
牋牋牋牋牋?揧es, yes, that抯 wonderful,?said Mr. van Driessen, who did not seem cheered, 揵ut . . . does Daria always wear long-sleeved clothing??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria抯 head came up and her gaze snapped in his direction. Van Driessen jumped. The girl had a predatory look, as if waiting for him to say the wrong word.
牋牋牋牋牋?揥hat??said her father, frowning. 揟here抯 nothing wrong with her clothing style. Lots of kids wear long sleeves. I wore long-sleeved shirts in military school, but I had to! Let a kid try something different, like a tie-dye T-shirt, and then watch the fun! Gah damn my old man for棓
牋牋牋牋牋?Van Driessen withered under Daria抯 serpentine gaze. 揥hat I was trying to say was that棓
牋牋牋牋牋?Her mother snapped off her cell phone and stood. 揑抳e got to get back to the office. The deposition didn抰 go well, and there抯 going to be hell to pay.?She leaned over the desk and reached for Mr. van Driessen抯 hand, shaking it. 揟hank you very much for talking with us about Daria, and we抣l do everything we can to help her get along better with the other students, if we can. We have to go, Jake.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揃ut I was handling things!?her father protested. 揑 was almost a parent here!?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Mr. van Driessen would not look up from his desk when they left, though Daria stared at him all the way out.
牋牋牋牋牋?In the back seat of the car on the way home, Daria reached a hand inside her jacket and slipped her fingers under her T-shirt when her parents weren抰 looking. Her fingertips ran over the dense series of parallel scars that began under the rim of her tee and ran down her chest, around and over and under her breasts. The scars swept out over her shoulders and midway down her upper arms, but they went no further than a phys-ed T-shirt would reveal. The scars were no problem in swimming class, as the athletics coach everyone called 揗ister Buzzcut?simply didn抰 care. The other students knew and avoided her. Daria felt a sense of calm as she touched the rough, raised lines. Soon her skin would be full, and it would be time to reverse the angle of the cuts, crisscrossing the older scars.
牋牋牋牋牋?I should never have tried cutting my forearms last month, though, she thought. I got too close to the wrists, and Van Driessen noticed the marks. Can抰 have that. Can抰 let anyone see the damage. Can抰 let anyone see the real me inside. Can抰 let anyone know what I抦 going through. God damn this rotten town and everything in it. God damn everything, everything starting with me.
牋牋牋牋牋?She glanced down at her notebook. MAD DOG. GOD DAM. Is there any significance to the reversal? If so, what? And who the hell cares?
牋牋牋牋牋?She let out her breath. Funny that Grandma Ruth said that Mad Dog was supposed to have a razor phobia. All the old photos of him showed him with a full beard. Why was he so afraid of razors? Why would anyone be afraid of a razor when he had such a great knife as he did? I抦 not afraid of razors, or death. Her fingers ran over the field of parallel scars above her left breast. I抦 not afraid of that stuff at all. I抦 not the same as I was before I turned twelve, before Camp Grizzly, before I got my period, before middle school got tough, before high school, before my parents got weirder, before?/i>
牋牋牋牋牋?The need came back. She sighed in acquiescence. It would not be denied, but it would be only a few minutes until she could get to her room, lock her door, prepare the mirror and rags and antiseptic, and get out the knife. Only minutes until she would erase the fear and depression, conquer the need to cry. She was very good with that fighting knife, though only when using it on herself. She would never use it on anyone else, she knew, no matter what she wrote to the contrary. She hated no one quite that badly. No one but herself.
牋牋牋牋牋?Her eyes closed. She saw herself kneeling on the floor by her bed, the tip of the knife above her small bare breast, then descending to press into the pale skin. She felt the deepest peace inside when the blood appeared.
牋牋牋牋牋?Shakespeare, as always, said it best.
牋牋牋牋牋?Speak, hands, for me.
III
牋牋牋牋牋?The business-class section of the 747 had all the basic comforts a teenager could hope for while on a free trip with her father to a tax-deductible conference: lots of leg room, between-meal snacks, and a small-screen TV and earphones for every cushy seat. It had everything except something for the passenger terrified of flying.
牋牋牋牋牋?揑 love business class!?her father exclaimed from his aisle seat, drawing concerned stares from other passengers. 揅omplimentary cocktails, arm rests you can really get a grip on!?His maniacal laugh was followed by a half-whispered whine, and he grabbed his empty glass and thrust it at an approaching flight steward. 揌ow about a refill here??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Time for yet another caregiver intervention, thought Daria, sitting in the window seat beside him. Her father had been on edge for weeks, alternating between hysterical rage, depressed weeping, and wild panic attacks. Having him go screaming over that edge on a transcontinental flight would not make the weekend any brighter.
牋牋牋牋牋?揇ad,?she said, gentle but firm, 搚ou should go easy on the complimentary cocktails.?And see a psychiatrist when we get home. Stop trying to tough it out.
牋牋牋牋牋?揧ou抮e right,?said her father, handing his glass to the steward and waving off a refill. 揘eed a distraction, need a distraction,?he muttered, then picked up a book and began reading the advertising copy aloud.
牋牋牋牋牋?I guess I can抰 complain about being his part-time
surrogate mother, Daria thought, pretending to listen to her father抯
patter. He stuck up for me when I got
that rash from daydreaming about my best friend抯 big brother, and then he and
Mom found out about my cutting. Damn nosey hospital staff. Dad抯 as neurotic as
he ever was, but he抯 more supportive than Mom, and he doesn抰 insist on
searching me for new cuts梩hank God梬hich I guess is both good and bad,
depending on your point of view. And poor Mom will never figure out where the
new cuts are. Serves her right, thinking that a strip search makes for perfect
parenting. Good thing they never found the knife. One more strip search,
though, and I抣l be tempted to . . . complain. Like I抎 do anything else.
牋牋牋牋牋?And speaking of stripping, Mom has been working a lot of overtime at the office lately. Eric, it抯 always Eric Schrecter on the phone, always her boss making her laugh, making her blush, getting her hot. It抯 so obvious. I bet Dad found out and it blew his ego. That would figure. I can tell something抯 going on. Thanks a lot, Mom. Thanks ever so much. I know the magic has fizzled and you抮e just going through the motions with Dad at home, but couldn抰 you have held on just a little longer before?/i>
牋牋牋牋牋?She noticed
her father was waiting for her to say something. She offered a non-sequitur
response that seemed to satisfy him, then drifted back into passivity as her
father chatted away about his book. I
wonder what a good father would have been like for me. Not afraid to take
risks, always there for you, doesn抰 need his hand held . . . I wonder what
that would have been like. Would I be any different? Would I still hate myself?
Would I still cut myself? Why do I bother thinking about this? Why did my life
change so much when I turned twelve? Hormones? Brain chemistry? Sunspots? Acts
of God?
牋牋牋牋牋?What would it have been like if
Grandpa Morgendorffer had been my father? Would I be like Dad: broken, ashamed
of my weakness, trying to hold up my head through failure after failure? Dad抯
sister抯 as bad as he is, always worrying if she抯 done the right thing or worrying
what other people think. Mad Dog left a mess no one could clean up. I could
hate him for what he抯 done. I could, if I抎 known him . . . but I don抰, so .
. . eh.
牋牋牋牋牋?Why did Mom marry Dad, anyway? Right, like I抦 ever going to figure that one out. Okay, Morgendorffer, break time抯 over. Back to reality.
牋牋牋牋牋?Her father抯 monologue quickly became tiresome. She put her hand on her father抯 wrist and squeezed. His ranting ceased. He gave an embarrassed smile, then put down the book and picked up a bag of peanuts. He did not seem so afraid of flying now.
牋牋牋牋牋?There, there, Dad. Loyal Daria抯 looking out for you. God, please let me go to college so I won抰 get stuck doing this for the rest of my natural life. I don抰 hate you, Dad. You didn抰 do me wrong, not the terrible wrong some fathers do. You did your best. You tried. It could have been worse. It抯 just that梚t抯 just that I hate my life so bleeding much, I can hardly?/i>
牋牋牋牋牋?揧ou know,?said her father with great heartiness, waving a legume, 搕he peanut really is a second-class nut. Now, cashews?i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>those are what the big guys eat, the CEOs!?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Words to live by. She examined her own
peanut package. I don抰 care if he抯
afraid of heights, but he抯 afraid to be afraid. He won抰 even try to face his
fears. Grandpa destroyed him, and I can抰 fix him. That抯 what抯 so
heartbreaking. Here抯 the shattered remains of my father, and I can barely get
up the courage to pick up two pieces and stick them together. It wouldn抰 kill
me. Shouldn抰 I let down the barriers for once and tell him I think he抯 a
hero? A little lie isn抰 going to hurt. He could have turned out like his
father, he could have been a new Mad Dog and made our lives the living hell he
knew. It took everything he had not to be like his father, everything he had to
fight it, and all that抯 left of him is a broken shell. I wish there had been
just a little more there, but to save us, it took all he had. He really tried.
牋牋牋牋牋?Maybe he is a hero, in a way. Maybe
he抯 my hero. He抯 the first one to come to my defense, no matter what. He抯
the only one in the family who thinks I抦 the greatest. He抯 embarrassing, he抯
a clueless clown, he raves about squirrels plotting against him梑ut he would
stand up for me at the gates of Hell. He抯 been the best father he could be,
even if it isn抰 much. He reaches out to me, once in a while, and he抯 there
for me, sometimes.
牋牋牋牋牋?It could have been worse. It could
have been a lot worse.
牋牋牋牋牋?Thanks, Dad. You did your best.
牋牋牋牋牋?Why can抰 I ever say that I love you?
Do I even know what love is?
牋牋牋牋牋?Why can抰 I ever cry?
牋牋牋牋牋?She looked at the object she had pulled from the peanut bag. 揌ow did a salted goldfish get in here??she said in mock surprise, then popped it in her mouth and chewed. 揥eird.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?I抦 such a coward. I抦 such a goddamned coward, I wish I were dead.
牋牋牋牋牋?Hours passed, and the cabin grew quiet. Her father snored lightly beside her. She peered out the little window at feathery clouds, above and below.
牋牋牋牋牋?If I was angry with someone, anyone other than me, who would I be angry with?
牋牋牋牋牋?The thought bothered her. She had the feeling she was missing something, something obvious.
牋牋牋牋牋?I don抰 really hate anyone. I don抰 like
school, my teachers, my classmates except a few, my family for the most part,
et cetera. If I did hate someone, who would I hate? My parents? I抦 pissed at
Mom for getting schtupped at the office, yeah, and I抦 not all that tickled
with Dad, either, even if he does care about me, and Mom does too, I know, and
I don抰 hate either of them enough to . . . forget it. I抦 such a wus. I can抰
make myself hate anyone.
牋牋牋牋牋?So why am I worrying about this? Why do I feel like I need to . . .
牋牋牋牋牋?She found herself thinking about the knife, which disturbed her. She could never stop thinking for long about that damn knife; it always came back. She frowned and crossed her legs. She wished she had brought the knife with her, but airline security would not have permitted it. The need for it was growing. She hoped she could hold out until she could find something at the hotel, a pin or razor, and get a few moments of privacy in the bathroom. There was still hope.
牋牋牋牋牋?She sighed and decided to call her best friend when she and her father got to San Diego. Daria could not imagine how she would have survived one week in Lawndale without the help and sarcastic advice of her fellow outcast-in-arms, Andrea. A cynical, undersized brain and a bitter, overweight Goth: the perfect match, friends for life梐nd Andrea was a cutter par excellence. She knew of places to cut that no mother would ever find, and she knew the dark places in Daria抯 soul hidden from everyone else. The Andrea-Daria, they called themselves, a ticket to disaster.
牋牋牋牋牋?And Andrea抯 big brother Damien梔ark hair, dark eyes, cruel smile . . . Daria sighed in contentment, blushing scarlet at his memory.
牋牋牋牋牋?He was to die for.
IV
牋牋牋牋牋?The summer after Damien dumped her, Daria went to work at a children抯 camp run by one of her high-school teachers. She didn抰 answer Andrea抯 phone calls or e-mails. She came home every evening scratched to pieces, but briars did it, she said with a careless shake of the head: briars and barbed wire and bumping into splinter-filled posts and bratty kids throwing sharp things and squirrels and who knew what else. Her mother was concerned but let it pass.
牋牋牋牋牋?The truth was, Daria never went outdoors at the Okay to Cry Corral. The camp director kept everyone inside. As for the scratches, the knife just slipped.
牋牋牋牋牋?Sixty-seven hundred times.
V
牋牋牋牋牋?November rains lashed the car windows. Andrea pulled her car into a space at a roadside diner called Mom抯 just outside Lawndale, positioned a newspaper over her head as she got out, and hurried inside. Daria saw her coming. She got up from her booth and ran to the door to hug her only friend. Andrea hugged back even though Daria was soaked, her hair plastered to her scalp and clothing.
牋牋牋牋牋?揌ey, shipmate,?Andrea whispered. 揧ou okay??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揘o.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揇id you walk all the way out here by yourself??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?A nod. 揗om had the car.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?They sat down and Daria emptied out her life over coffee and cigarettes. Her eyes were lifeless and dry, her voice barely above a monotone.
牋牋牋牋牋?揟hey fired her, just like that??Andrea asked at the story抯 end. 揟hat抯 a hell of a screwing.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揘ice pun. She gets severance, some other stuff, maybe a 憈hanks for being such a great sport?card from Eric. She抯 so mad at herself she can抰 speak. I抳e been waiting for this moment for years, the golden reign of parental silence, and now that it抯 here . . .?Daria shrugged, looking out the window at the rain. 揔ind of funny,?she added, with no trace of humor.
牋牋牋牋牋?Andrea hesitated, then plunged in. 揂ny chance your folks抣l get back together??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?A shake of the head. 揘ada. Dad doesn抰 want to leave his apartment. He says he抯 getting his life together, but I don抰 know if I believe that. I don抰 think he抯 seeing anyone, not that he抯 making a killer impression as a single. Doesn抰 shower, doesn抰 shave, dirty fingernails, all the turnoffs. His office doubles as a landfill, and so does his apartment. Trash all over the floor, food left out . . . it looks like four college guys live there instead of one middle-aged guy. Quinn won抰 even go in there anymore. He has to meet us at a restaurant or something for our nights out.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揥hat about your mom??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria snorted and took a sip of coffee. 揝he says she抣l find another job somewhere else. Nothing抯 going to happen to Eric, of course, he being a partner. She抯 the one who screwed up and got emotional, as the company sees it. I think she抯 going to sell the house and move out of state. She can抰 stay around here and get work. Everyone knows about the affair. I抦 surprised they didn抰 put it on the evening news.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Andrea knocked ash from her cigarette. Her Eye of Horus makeup was perfect, as always. 揥hat about you and Princess Q??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?A fragile smile came to Daria抯 face. 揂 poet and don抰 know it. I dunno. We抎 like to finish out the school year, but that means probably staying with Dad.?She made a face. 揅ould be worse, I guess. I could clean up the place once a week, make Quinn do it the other six days.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑 could help for maybe half a day,?said Andrea. 揑t might inspire me to do a new batch of poems.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揟hat抯 what I抦 afraid of,?said Daria. She stared into her coffee.
牋牋牋牋牋?Andrea scratched her nose with her thumb, still holding her cigarette. 揝o,?she said, 搘hat about us? See each other in school and say nothing, like the last couple months, or can we hang out again, have a little fun??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria swallowed. 揑抦 sorry,?she said, not looking up. 揑 should抳e kept in touch.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑抦 sorry, too. I抦 sorry I didn抰 kick Damien抯 ass into Chesapeake Bay.?She took a drag off her cigarette. 揌e抯 at college now. Bastard.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑 know.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揟hat he抯 in college or that he抯 a bastard??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?It was Daria抯 turn to hesitate. 揟hat he抯 gone,?she said. Her hands clutched her coffee mug to warm her fingers.
牋牋牋牋牋?For a long moment Andrea watched Daria stare into her drink. She then reached across the table with her free hand and touched Daria on the cheek, turning her head to one side.
牋牋牋牋牋?Fresh scars ran up Daria抯 throat to her chin, crisscrossing over the veins in her neck. Andrea counted over a dozen crusty brown lines. She let go of Daria抯 cheek and took her friend抯 arm next, pulling up the long sleeve of the green jacket several inches.
牋牋牋牋牋?揓esus Christ,?she said when she saw Daria抯 wrist. 揓esus sonofabitchin?Christ.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria pulled her arm back and stared into her coffee again.
牋牋牋牋牋?Andrea crushed out her cigarette, her face gray. 揑 had no idea. I should have called.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揧ou did. You called a lot.?Daria exhaled. 揑 guess I should have answered. I didn抰 know if you抎 come by tonight. I don抰 know what you might棓
牋牋牋牋牋?揧ou抮e my best friend, Daria. You抮e my only friend. Why wouldn抰 I come??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria opened her mouth as if to answer that, but no words came out, and eventually she closed it. They sat together and listened to the rain, drank another cup of coffee each, talked about school, then went to Andrea抯 car.
牋牋牋牋牋?揥here to??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria took a long deep breath. 揇owntown. I have to take care of something.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑 can wait for you.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揓ust drop me off. I抣l see you tomorrow.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揑s this about your Mom??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揝ort of.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揥ill you be okay??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?A nod. 揑抣l be okay.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揙kay.?Andrea started the car. The heater came on full blast. 揑t抯 good to see you again.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揧ou, too.?/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?揥anna go by Good Time Chinese after school tomorrow, see who gets the highest score on pinball??/p>
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria smiled, staring at her bare knees. 揝ure,?she said.
牋牋牋牋牋?Something wasn抰 right. Andrea frowned and reached for her friend抯 hand. Daria抯 skin was as cold as a granite tomb.
牋牋牋牋牋?揋ood Time Chinese tomorrow,?Andrea repeated.
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria nodded, staring at her knees or something beyond them, her smile gone.
牋牋牋牋牋?Andrea let go of her friend抯 hand. Her heart sank. 揑 love you,?she said, which she had never said to Daria before, or to anyone that she could remember.
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria kept nodding. She said nothing in return.
牋牋牋牋牋?They drove to the downtown Starbucks at the corner of MacGillicutty Street and Wright Avenue, next to the storefront church with the broken-winged angel on the sidewalk outside. It was still raining hard. Daria got out, slammed the door, and retreated under the awning by the Starbucks door. Andrea waved at her. Daria raised a hand and held it aloft, palm facing outward. Goodbye. Then Andrea drove away.
牋牋牋牋牋?And three minutes later drove back. Daria was gone. Andrea parked by the curb and got out in the rain, looking up and down the street. She ran into the Starbucks. No one had seen Daria around. She had never entered. She was gone.
* * *
牋牋牋牋牋?Half a block from Starbucks, on the other side of the street in the Renfield Building, were the offices of Vitale, Davis, Horowitz, Riordan, Schrecter, Schrecter, and Schrecter, Attorneys at Law. The front door opened to the correct pressing of a four-digit code on the keypad to the left of the door. Daria knew her mother抯 code by heart, but she did not use it. She used Eric Schrecter抯 code, which she also knew by heart, having seen him punch in that code on several past occasions. The lock on the glass door clicked. She pushed the door open and went inside.
牋牋牋牋牋?Shakespeare, as always, said it best.
I
am one, my liege,
Whom
the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have
so incens抎 that I am reckless what
I
do to spite the world.
And
I another,
So
weary with disasters, tugg抎 with fortune,
That
I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it or be rid on 憈.
牋牋牋牋牋?No one was in the dim-lit lobby. It was very quiet. She glanced at the security camera over the front door, but she knew from her mother that it merely recorded what it saw on a long videotape that no one would see until morning, if even then. Punching in the security code had deactivated the motion sensors as well, if no one else were already in the building. She walked around the receptionist抯 desk to the door behind and opened it and went through. She was now in a stairwell. She held the door so it shut softly, alerting no one to her presence.
牋牋牋牋牋?Her mother usually worked late on Friday nights. So did Eric Schrecter.
There
shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
牋牋牋牋牋?She took off her boots and left them at the bottom of the stairwell. At the third floor, she paused by the doorway and listened, hearing nothing. A peek through the door revealed darkness. She opened the door and went through, shutting the door in silence behind her.
牋牋牋牋牋?The hallway leading down to the offices of Eric Schrecter and Maurice Riordan was dark.
牋牋牋牋牋?The hallway leading to Helen Morgendorffer抯 former office was lit, and she could hear movement in the distance there. It made sense. Someone was cleaning up after Helen. It would have to be Eric.
牋牋牋牋牋?Daria nodded, then stepped into an open storage cubicle. There she removed her green jacket and lay it over a chair. She then removed her amber T-shirt, her black socks, her black skirt and belt, her necklace and watch, her bra, her underwear, and the deerskin sheath strapped to her right thigh. It was cool in the office, and goose bumps rose on her pale skin. She wore only her glasses, as she needed to see what came next.
牋牋牋牋牋?She then slid the Ranger knife from the deerskin sheath and held it before her eyes. The dull black blade reflected nothing.
牋牋牋牋牋?Is this full circle, then? she wondered.
Is this why Mad Dog was so afraid of
razors, why he left this knife at the bottom of his trunk of memories? Is this
why his nickname spelled backward is a curse? Is this why he was drained of all
things human, or had he let that happen of his own will? Is there power in this
blade in my hand, or is it in my cells, a gene that skipped the generation of
my father? Is Mad Dog here with me, watching me, helping me? Is what I抦 thinking
a delusion or a perception of monstrous clarity? Is this all I am, a living
wound that nothing will heal but more wounds? What am I, after all? Who am I?
What good am I?
牋牋牋牋牋?I have no answers. I cannot heal my
broken father. I cannot heal my wayward mother. I have no connection to my
sister. I have forsaken my only friend. I am alone and so full of pain my cup
runneth over, and even a flood of red cannot wash the pain away.
牋牋牋牋牋?But I have to try. I cannot go on without trying.
牋牋牋牋牋?She lowered the blade to her left arm and began. The caffeine and nicotine and adrenaline kept her conscious through it all. She never made a sound for the next twenty-three minutes, though her breathing shuddered and came in fits and starts, and she hissed several times through her teeth.
牋牋牋牋牋?When she was done, she saw the blade in the dim light and it was the only thing around her that was not red. It was finished, the first part, and it was perfect.
牋牋牋牋牋?She took a deep breath and let it slowly out. She was calm again and centered. It was time to finish it.
牋牋牋牋牋?She stepped out of the cubicle, feeling light-headed, and walked silently toward her mother抯 office, the knife in her right hand. She left a line of dark red footprints behind her in the carpet.
?i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'>Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
牋牋牋牋牋?The door to her mother抯 office was half closed. She walked up to it and pushed it open and walked in.
牋牋牋牋牋?The look on Eric Schrecter抯 face when he fell back from her was all she could ask for. She continued walking toward him until she stood over him, raising the knife of Mad Dog to her own throat. And she finished what she had come to do. For the first time ever, she shared her pain.
牋牋牋牋牋?He howled as her pain sprayed over him, a red nightmare.
牋牋牋牋牋?I am not afraid, I抦 not afraid, not afraid, not?/i>
Original: 10/29/05
FINIS