This is the story of what happens when you innocently try to
take a couple hours for yourself, to indulge in a little shameless Netflix binging.
***Disclaimer*** There are frightening images.
First I shall set the scene…
It was early morning (roughly 12:45 pm). I was in my pj’s, coffee in hand, settled on
the couch. I had bravely chosen a new program
to discover, selecting British sci-fi, psychological drama “Black Mirror”; a
choice far from my norm. I would later
learn that the show is in fact, a modern day remake of the cult classic “The
Twilight Zone”. Had I know this going in,
I would never have started it; (mostly because I always hated that stupid show)
the twilight zone is creepy shit you don’t mess with.
Alas, the saga continues…
Episode 2 was a doozy.
I just have to say, the guy in this episode is a real tool. I mean, who checks all their belongings
at the door of some sketchy secretive gaming cult, and agrees to have a device implanted
into their brain stem as a test subject…. Um hello! McFly!
So yeah, he pretty much gets what he deserves; which is a
horrifying mind journey through his darkest fears, all generated by his own
brain; because obviously your own brain knows how to terrify you the most.
Anyhoo, half way through the episode, I hear a faint voice
from beyond my headphones. It starts to
get louder, and then I am jolted by movement in my peripheral vision.
I pull the headphones off and look at my 18 year old
daughter as she stands there repeating “Mom… Mom… Mom… Mom… Mom…” all
deadpan and full of monotone.
“What!?” I say.
“I’m going for a shower, you let me sleep too long”
“Okay, whatever”; I give her the finger, and nestle the
headphones back onto my ears.
Back to
the show...
I am sorely disappointed with the ending. There is however, a
small offering of conciliation when the credit roll is accompanied by one of my
favourite Elvis Presley songs. You probably don’t
know it.
And this is where things get real scary. Remembering it now, I can almost hear Rod
Sterling setting the scene for my impending doom.
Cut to scene…
I sigh, close my laptop, remove the headphones, and resign
myself to doing something half productive with the rest of my day. I unwittingly head up the stairs to my little
loft, Elvis channeling through me as I sing (twang and all) “Oh Momma liked the Roses, She grew
them in the ya….”.
And that’s when I happened upon the most frightening scene
that my brain could conjure; stopped dead in my tracks, I was firmly trapped in the zone.
As I tried to gather my bearings, all I could manage to mutter was “But I was singing Elvis”, as
the most genuinely dejected appeal to rewind time.
But alas, it was all too real. My daughter, gluing her punk-rock, tattooed
boyfriend’s hair into a spikey Mohawk, like it was the most normal thing in the
world. And I didn’t even know he was in
the house.
I am, days later, still repeating silently in my head “but I
was singing Elvis”, over and over.
Scared out of her Chucks,
Suzie
Post Script,
I just want to say, all mohawks aside, he’s actually a good kid that I really like. But I confess, that I will forever call him “The Mohawk” when he’s not around, because that is a golden nickname for your daughter’s boyfriend… am I right?
