Death Threats From a Nine-Year-Old Girl
Five years ago I was out having drinks and funs with my posse. Since I still had all my hair then, my posse consisted mostly of women, who fawned over my ever utterance and simpered and giggled at me.
One of the women on this particular night thought it apt to bring her child to a bar. Everyone cooed over the child and gave it the attention it wanted. Everyone except me. I stole back the attention with a few timely quips and flicks of my glorious head of hair.
The child seethed with resentment. The child’s name was ELLA.
Death threats seemed like the farthest topic of conversation imaginable when Cecile (at that time a French teacher in the school I worked at) scribbled a charming little portrait of me:
Note the caption – A cup of tea would ble lovely. She now works as a journalist in New Zealand. Just goes to show – there’s hope for everyone.
Goofy spelling aside, it was cute. Cue more simpering and cooing.
ELLA demanded the book of post-it notes, grabbed the pen and began furiously scribbling. I should have known something was wrong from the way she gripped the pen. She was one of these people:
After twenty seconds of tongue-sticking out concentration, she held this up for all to see:
“Oh how lovely, Ella,” said a woman.
“She’s very talented,” said her mother. “She was pulling the legs off spiders when she was just 3 years old. But what does it mean, Ella?”
“Well,” said the child, her eyes literally glowing red like a demonspawn, “That’s Andrew and I’ve put arsenic in his beer and he’s getting drunk and then he’s falling over and now he’s DEAD.”
“Heehee,” chuckled everyone. “How adorable!”
Emboldened by the favourable response of the so-called role models around her, Ella began churning out distressing image after distressing image, and all the while my blood turned cold. But not good cold like a cool coke on a sunny day. I mean bad cold, like the floor of an unfamiliar bathroom.
This one she explained thus: “I’m the rabbit and Andrew’s the wolf. He thinks he’s going to get me so he’s chasing me but I’m faster and he doesn’t see the tree so he hits the tree and he’s on the floor and he’s dead and I’m laughing.”
“This is Andrew and he’s got this gun and he’s shooting me. But I’ve got a bazooka so I kill him and he’s on the floor and he’s dead.”
Perhaps Ella felt she’d started with the dial turned up to 11, because she calmed down a bit. Her next ones focused on social pain.
“This is Andrew and he loves a girl so he gives her some flowers but she doesn’t like him so she slaps him in the face.”
I might have accidentally given Ella’s mother one of my heart-stopping Looks because if I had to give the next comic a name I would choose either ‘Scribblings of a Hell-Baby’ or ‘Steer Clear of My Mum.’
“This is Andrew with a drink and this is Andrew looking at my mother and he loves her because she’s pretty and then my dad comes and he’s mad and he punches Andrew in the gob.”
“This is Andrew trying to be Spider-man and he’s doing a spider web and trying to swing with it but it breaks so then he’s dead. Then this is his grave and it’s all covered in spiders.”
The final one is perhaps the most psychologically interesting. How does a 9-year-old even think like this?
“On the left is my grave and everyone is sad and crying because they loved me and I had friends and this is Andrew’s grave on the right but there’s no-one there because he’s all alone and nobody loves him and there’s lightning on it.”
Soon Ella will be 15 years old. GOD HAVE MERCY ON US ALL.