i think itâs implied nikki lives with her mom? maybe i made that up idk. wish nikki says she stepped into her house and just couldnât be there bc of her dad, and sheâs obviously lying, but it might be believable bc her mom being there would remind her of her dad? in the og script wish nikki claims her momâs been telling her to go see him, too.
but for these purposes, just like⌠one night your daughter goes out for drinks with her friends and doesnât come back/comes inside for one second before leaving again. she doesnât come home the rest of the might. maybe a little odd considering that she did step inside, you heard the door creak open for a moment, but not that weird. she probably just needed to grab something. she is in her mid twenties, after all. there have been nights she hasnât come home. maybe sheâs seeing that ian guy again. you can never tell whatâs going on with them. she comes home the next night after work and showers and spends an hour longer than usual getting ready. she tells you couldnât decide what to wear. you frown, because sheâs always been self-assured in that, and generally prefers a t-shirt and baggy jacket over the dress sheâs now wearing. she tells you sheâs going to meet her friend bear. itâs late. youâre confused. sheâs talked to you about bear before; youâve met him. it doesnât surprise you that he likes her, and he seems nice enough, but sheâs only ever seemed to think of him as a friend. she always wanted a sibling and in high school she told you she finally had a brother, and that hasnât seemed to change until really suddenly, theyâre dating.
she keeps working at the music shop though you know she planned to quit to focus on her writing. and you had your reservations about that but itâs so strange for her to drop it entirely when itâs something she really cared about. you see her less and less, and she starts spending all her time over at bearâs house. she comes over to get her tigerâs eye once and wonât tell you why. then you stop seeing her at all. itâs like one day you blink and sheâs moved out, except so many things she cares about are here. she only texts sporadically, one sentences responses back to you. itâs all in response to something you sent first and it all takes a long time. except you get a text back once right away, a brief one, that makes you set down your phone and stare. Mom itâs not me. you send her a ?. you see the thought bubbles. she doesnât reply a long time until it finally just says typo! didnât mean to send! you try to call her. she actually answers this time. her voice sounds so different on the phone, like sheâs pitching it up. soft and sweet and young. like she would have when she was five. you try to ask her what she meant to text you, but she doesnât answer the question. just keeps talking in circles about bear. you try to ask about her job, about how her bookâs coming, anything. but all she can talk about is how she loves him so much and sheâs trying to be right for him and she doesnât know why itâs not working, what sheâs doing wrong. it doesnât make sense. youâve seen her with boyfriends; this has never been how she is in relationships. sheâs not acting like herself, you tell her, and ask her to think about coming home for a while. you ask if bear is hurting her, if sheâs okay. all her answers sound robotic and strange until she hangs up without warning. she stops answering your texts or calls at all. you think about calling the police, but what would you say? âi donât like my daughterâs boyfriendâ? you text her that youâre always around if she needs you. that youâd like to see her soon. then you go to sleep. then to work. rinse, repeat. you try not to worry.
and then one night, you check instagram, where you have a few of her friends added. you scroll through your feed until you pause and hear her voice, still so strange. someone took a video of their own smug grinning face while in the background as she recited some strange, violent, off-putting poem. the caption reads freaky nikki at it again at this party tonight. itâs been a while. you purse your lips, angry. you donât know whatâs going on, you donât, sheâs not acting like the daughter you know, but rage spools in your gut at that. you still remember the night she came home her senior year and sobbed in your lap why donât they like me why why am i such a freak whatâs wrong with me? you almost comment, but you donât. youâre a grown woman, and anyway, your dms have caught your eye.
1 new dm from her friend ian. hi ms. f sorry to bug u, iâd text but i donât have ur number. iâm pretty worried about nikki, sheâs been acting p weird and she hurt herself tonight. p sure bear took her to the er. have u heard anything from her? you sit up. the words âshe hurt herselfâ twist unpleasantly in your stomach, but youâre almost relieved. someone else sees it. someone else is worried. so you thank him for reaching out. pour your heart about your worries. wonder if you should be concerned about drugs again. she went through a hard time.
you wait long past the time you should to hear back. you have work in the morning. ian never replies. you never even see a read receipt. and you have no idea if your daughter is even physically okay, now. you try to call the hospital. she wasnât admitted.
the next morning, getting ready for work, you turn on the news. a triple homicide. her friends from the music shop. footage of your daughter, the only survivor, covered in blood and strange markings and wearing a dress sheâd hate, being taken into custody, her eyes almost dead, lifeless. you donât go to work.
next time you see your daughter, itâs through a glass door and a jail phone. you try to get her to explain. tell her you donât understand. i donât understand, either. her eyes water and she claws at the glass until a guard glares. all she can say is it wasnât me, mom, it wasnât me, it wasnât it wasnât it wasnâtâ
you believe her. thatâs the worst part.
