Unexpected After-Prom Consequences - Part 1

Things take an unexpected turn when Emily comes home from after-prom and shows me she was in a hypnosis show but doesn't remember it

It has been eight years since the world lost its color. When Sarah died, the light didn't just dim; it vanished. For a long time, it was just me and Emily, navigating the wreckage of a life interrupted by cancer. I became more than a father; I became a protector, a provider, and a silent witness to her growing up. But lately, as she moves through high school, the lines of my role have begun to feel blurred, shifting from simple parental guidance into something much more complex.

The morning started like any other, or so I thought. The sun was filtering through the kitchen blinds, casting long, dusty streaks across the table. I sat there with my coffee, the steam rising in a slow curl, waiting for the sound of her key in the lock. It was nearly 9 AM. She had been at the "after-prom" lockup, a supervised event designed to keep students safe and sober after the dance.

When she finally walked in, she wasn't tired or disheveled; she was glowing with that post-party adrenaline.

"Dad! You won't believe it," she laughed, dropping her bag by the door. She sat across from me, her eyes bright, pulling out her phone. "The DJ was fire, but they also brought in this stage hypnotist. It was insane. Everyone was losing their minds."

I smiled, playing the part of the interested parent. "A hypnotist? At a prom?"

"It was so funny," she said, sliding the phone toward me. "Here, let me show you."

I watched as she skipped ahead in a video. It was a chaotic scene of teenagers on a stage, laughing and acting foolishly under the command of a charismatic man in a dark suit. As the video played, the hypnotist moved through the volunteers, asking for their names, building a sense of playful tension. Then, his voice dropped an octave, becoming rhythmic and commanding. "Sleep, Lisa" he ordered to one girl, and she slumped instantly.

"That's wild," I said, my voice slightly strained as I reached out to pause the video.

"Wait, why am I up there? I didn't do that ... did I?" she said hesitantly.

"You don't remember any of it?"

"None of it," she said, leaning back, her face looking bewildered. "It’s like a black hole in my memory."

My breath hitched when the camera panned to Emily. She was sitting there, smiling nervously and fidgeting, her eyes wide. The hypnotist approached her. "And what is your name, my dear?"

"Emily," she said on screen, her voice light.

"And Emily... Sleep!"

The transition was instantaneous. On the small screen, Emily’s head dropped, her expression smoothing into a terrifyingly beautiful blankness. I felt a sudden, sharp jolt in my chest—a cocktail of irritation and a dark, guilty excitement. The idea that she could be so utterly stripped of her will, so completely under the thumb of a stranger without even knowing it, stirred something deep within me. It was a loss of autonomy that felt both unsettling and intoxicating.

"What did you ..." I started, but then halted when I looked at her and realized she wasn't really there. Her head was forward, her posture unnervingly still. A chill ran down my spine. She was hypnotized, just like in the video. Just like on stage. I felt like I couldn't breathe for a moment as I realized what was going on. I felt the same lightheaded dizziness when they would put the IV in Sarah's arm and I had to sit down to keep from passing out. I'm glad I was sitting down already. I gathered myself together and switched back into parent mode. "Go to bed" I said, trying to sound authoritative. "You’ve had a long night. Go to bed, Emily."

Without acknowledgment, she stood up and began walking toward the stairs. She didn't stumble; she moved with a strange, fluid grace, her eyes fixed on nothing. She walked right past me, heading toward her room, but she didn't look like my daughter anymore. She looked like a blank mannequin version of her.

I sat in silence for a few minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs. Confusion turned into a nagging sense of concern. Was she still under up there? I stood up, intending to check on her, to make sure she hadn't tripped or fallen into some strange trance-induced stupor.

I headed upstairs, but as I approached her bedroom, I realized the door was ajar. I expected to see her tucked under the covers, but she wasn't there. Then I noticed hallway bathroom light was on and the door was open too. I for some reason moved forward.

My heart stopped.

She was in the bathroom, and she was undressing. She moved with a mechanical, rhythmic precision, peeling away her clothes piece by piece, dropping them onto the floor without a second thought, bra and panties too. She didn't seem to care that the door was open, or that I might be standing just feet away. She was entirely unaware of my presence, lost in some internal, hypnotic void.

As she stood there, completely naked, I felt a wave of heat rush through me that I struggled to categorize. It wasn't fatherly pride; it was something much more primal. The way the light hit her skin, the curve of her waist, the slope of her breasts -- it was hauntingly familiar. For a terrifying moment, I wasn't looking at Emily; I was looking at Sarah ... and lusting. It was as if her mother had been reborn, younger, more vibrant, yet possessed by this eerie, silent stillness. The resemblance was so striking it felt like a physical blow to my chest and my groin simultaneously.

She stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked form behind the glass door. I stood frozen in the hallway, paralyzed by the sight of her washing herself with such mindless, vacant efficiency. She didn't look around; she didn't check the door. She was simply... obeying. When she finally turned off the water and stepped out, she didn't reach for the towel to cover herself, only to dry herself. She simply stood there, dripping, wiping her limbs and body with the towel, staying mostly exposed, her eyes vacant and unfocused, before dropping the towel and walking straight past me.

She moved like a ghost, brushing past my shoulder without a glance, and entered her bedroom. I watched, breathless, as she pulled on her pajamas, a strange longing emerging as all of the intimate parts of her body that I missed from her mother were hidden, and she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Within seconds, her breathing evened out. She was asleep.

I retreated downstairs, my mind a storm of conflicting emotions. I felt guilty for the intensity of my thoughts, for the way my pulse raced at the sight of her. I felt like an intruder in my own home, yet I felt more connected to the ghost of my wife, and my libido, than I had in years.

I sat back down in the dim light of the kitchen, the cold coffee forgotten, staring into the shadows and waiting for my mind to catch up with itself, wondering just how much of my daughter was there while in trance, and hating myself for not hating myself even more for the feelings I felt stirring for my own daughter.