I think my daughter is trying to kill me.
When my wife asks me where I got those new bruises and I answer “Audrey”, I think my daughter is trying to hurt me.
When my daughter locks me out of my bedroom at the precise moment I emerge naked from the shower, I think my daughter is trying to drive me mad.
When I feel little hands suddenly shoving me toward a 400 degree grill, I think my daughter is trying to burn me.
When my arms are full of bags, keys, and toys and she rips the glasses off my face and throws them on the floor, I think my daughter is trying to make my death look like an accident.
When she takes my toothbrush and stabs me in the back of the throat with it, I suddenly grow quite convinced of that.
When little Audrey waits for the precise moment I’m pulling out into traffic to scream at the top of her lungs, the case for murder-by-accident grows even stronger.
But when I wake up to a stuffed octopus suffocating me at my daughter’s hands, I no longer think she’s trying to make it look like an accident.
It’s when she tells me to “sleep with a fish”, I know without a doubt…
She is trying to kill me.