The Girl Who Pissed Off the Wrong Psychopath
The Girl Who Pissed Off The Wrong Psychopath
I could hear her screams echoing down the road.
“No!” She cried. “NO! I hate you! You are a monster! I know what you did! I will not come! NO! You are a monster! Let me go!”
As they drew closer to our house, the screams and protests got louder and louder. Through the upstairs window, I saw them both walk past our picket fence… It was November 4th, 1995. I only remember that because it was the day before my sixth birthday. We’d been upstairs decorating the room for the next day. I’d insisted I wanted to have the party in the upstairs flat, as that was where we lived before my dad had left. It was a beautiful evening.The evening sun cast long shadows on the narrow street as it lowered in the Western sky. All had been peaceful. Until Now.
Charlotte, my little friend, was screaming blue murder. Her face was red, her hair a straw-coloured birds nest. Behind her, her mother had her hand on her back and was half-supporting, half-pushing her daughter up the street. Her face was pinched into an unpleasant expression that suggested Charlotte would be well and truly punished for this unseemly display of emotion, as soon as they got out of the public view.
Running out the back door, I raced into the garden. Charlotte and her mother were now coming around the corner of our house. Charlotte was sobbing in a dramatic way.
“Charlie!” I called out! “Are you OK?”
Her mother patted her on the back. “Come on Charlotte. We are going home now.”
At this, Charlotte turned and glared at her mother.
“Whats the matter?” I asked
“My mother is a monster,” she said.
She’d hit the nail on the head with that remark. Her mother WAS a monster.
Years later, I would discover the full extent of how much of a monster this woman would turn out to be. Then, I only knew that she gave off a monster type vibes and could, theoretically, be a monster. But I had an overactive imagination. Or, so they told me.
“She’s like the bad fairy from Sleeping Beauty,” I told her. “She could be Mallificent!”
At this, Charlotte stopped crying. She looked at me. And then a smile broke over her face.
“My mother is Mallificent the bad fairy.” She giggled.
The mother hadn’t acknowledged my presence yet. She stood, frozen, like an ice-sculpture, her hand a few centermeters from her daughter’s back. Her eyes shone like blue lasers, her brow furrowed into a frown. Charlotte’s mother never looked happy, even on a good day. Today was not a good day. Today, she looked even unhappier than normal.
“I don’t want to go home.” She told me.
“You can’t go home. Not if she’s a monster. She might kill you in your sleep. Stay the night at my house!” I offered.
Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “Mum! Thea says I could stay the night at her house! Can I stay the night? Please?”
“You’ll have to ask Thea’s mother,” Charlotte’s mother said, her voice completely void of all emotion.
I hadn’t noticed my mother appear at my side. Mallificent gave her a threatening look, as if daring her to say Charlotte could come over.
My mother told me afterwards that she was doing it for me, not for Charlotte or Mallificent. She felt, at that point, that I was becoming a pawn in the Great Battle that was Charlotte vs Charlotte’s Mother. She didn’t want to have Charlotte put me in that position.
“Oh come on,” she said, “you girls will see each other lots at the party tomorrow.”
“No!” Charlotte cried. For the briefest moment she met my eye. “NOOOOOOO! NO!” She began spinning around in circles
“But Mum!” I yelled. “Charlotte’s mother is a monster, she can’t go home.”
“It. Was. A. Me. Ta. Phor.” Mallificent said sarcastically, without looking at me. She patted her daughter on the back, and gave her a little push down the road. Only because Charlotte was spinning around, she managed to catch her off balance, meaning she tripped and fell on the street.
“OUCH! You HURT me! You made me fall! You are a monster! You are Mallificent, the bad fairy. You are a witch! You are a monster! I hate you!”
The cries, screams and dramatic sobs continued on down the street as Charlotte and her mother walked away. It was as if I’d never interrupted them. A few moments later as they reached their house, the sounds stopped altogether. But the evening was no longer peaceful. Something about the smell of woodsmoke in the air left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Charlotte’s mother was a monster and Charlotte was in her grips. I had to rescue her.
“Why did Charlie say her mother was a monster?” I asked mine.
“All mothers can be monsters, sometimes. And it was a metaphor. She’s not really Mallificent or a monster. Charlotte was just cross with her mother. We all say things we don’t mean sometimes.”
If I’d understood irony back then, I may have realised what my mother was really trying to say.
*
My name is Theodora and I am the Problem Child.
My name means gift of God. And that I certainly am. But which God?
In the era of Ice and Fire, the word “gods” takes on a different meaning. There are the Old Gods and the New Gods, the Drowned God, The Lord of Light, The God of Many Faces, and the White Walker. Who am I a gift from?
Or maybe they got the prepositions wrong and I am really a gift FOR the Gods. Much like Craster’s sons, I existed to placate the White Walker. I was a sacrifice. Or maybe I’m a gift from the gods back to humanity, a sort of chew-them-up-and-spit-them-out type gift. I am a cautionary tale. This is what happens to children who piss off the gods.
Am I even really alive, or just a reanimated zombie corpse with a vengeance on all those who did me wrong when I was alive? I don’t know. My eyes are still brown, they never turned blue like those of wights. I still have a pulse. But I may as well be dead.
I’m no one special. I’m just a kid with a vivid imagination, absent parents and a need to run around in circles, both literally and metaphorically. I’m not even particularly bright. I often don’t get things like sarcasm and metaphors yet, but I will eventually. I’m not evil. I have feelings that are easily hurt. But I never meant to do anyone any harm. I’m little, I’m not even six yet.
But I’m creative. People have said a lot about me, but no one ever said I lacked imagination. I like to make up stories and this story is too good not to tell.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who pissed off the wrong psychopath.
This is my story.
“No!” She cried. “NO! I hate you! You are a monster! I know what you did! I will not come! NO! You are a monster! Let me go!”
As they drew closer to our house, the screams and protests got louder and louder. Through the upstairs window, I saw them both walk past our picket fence… It was November 4th, 1995. I only remember that because it was the day before my sixth birthday. We’d been upstairs decorating the room for the next day. I’d insisted I wanted to have the party in the upstairs flat, as that was where we lived before my dad had left. It was a beautiful evening.The evening sun cast long shadows on the narrow street as it lowered in the Western sky. All had been peaceful. Until Now.
Charlotte, my little friend, was screaming blue murder. Her face was red, her hair a straw-coloured birds nest. Behind her, her mother had her hand on her back and was half-supporting, half-pushing her daughter up the street. Her face was pinched into an unpleasant expression that suggested Charlotte would be well and truly punished for this unseemly display of emotion, as soon as they got out of the public view.
Running out the back door, I raced into the garden. Charlotte and her mother were now coming around the corner of our house. Charlotte was sobbing in a dramatic way.
“Charlie!” I called out! “Are you OK?”
Her mother patted her on the back. “Come on Charlotte. We are going home now.”
At this, Charlotte turned and glared at her mother.
“Whats the matter?” I asked
“My mother is a monster,” she said.
She’d hit the nail on the head with that remark. Her mother WAS a monster.
Years later, I would discover the full extent of how much of a monster this woman would turn out to be. Then, I only knew that she gave off a monster type vibes and could, theoretically, be a monster. But I had an overactive imagination. Or, so they told me.
“She’s like the bad fairy from Sleeping Beauty,” I told her. “She could be Mallificent!”
At this, Charlotte stopped crying. She looked at me. And then a smile broke over her face.
“My mother is Mallificent the bad fairy.” She giggled.
The mother hadn’t acknowledged my presence yet. She stood, frozen, like an ice-sculpture, her hand a few centermeters from her daughter’s back. Her eyes shone like blue lasers, her brow furrowed into a frown. Charlotte’s mother never looked happy, even on a good day. Today was not a good day. Today, she looked even unhappier than normal.
“I don’t want to go home.” She told me.
“You can’t go home. Not if she’s a monster. She might kill you in your sleep. Stay the night at my house!” I offered.
Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “Mum! Thea says I could stay the night at her house! Can I stay the night? Please?”
“You’ll have to ask Thea’s mother,” Charlotte’s mother said, her voice completely void of all emotion.
I hadn’t noticed my mother appear at my side. Mallificent gave her a threatening look, as if daring her to say Charlotte could come over.
My mother told me afterwards that she was doing it for me, not for Charlotte or Mallificent. She felt, at that point, that I was becoming a pawn in the Great Battle that was Charlotte vs Charlotte’s Mother. She didn’t want to have Charlotte put me in that position.
“Oh come on,” she said, “you girls will see each other lots at the party tomorrow.”
“No!” Charlotte cried. For the briefest moment she met my eye. “NOOOOOOO! NO!” She began spinning around in circles
“But Mum!” I yelled. “Charlotte’s mother is a monster, she can’t go home.”
“It. Was. A. Me. Ta. Phor.” Mallificent said sarcastically, without looking at me. She patted her daughter on the back, and gave her a little push down the road. Only because Charlotte was spinning around, she managed to catch her off balance, meaning she tripped and fell on the street.
“OUCH! You HURT me! You made me fall! You are a monster! You are Mallificent, the bad fairy. You are a witch! You are a monster! I hate you!”
The cries, screams and dramatic sobs continued on down the street as Charlotte and her mother walked away. It was as if I’d never interrupted them. A few moments later as they reached their house, the sounds stopped altogether. But the evening was no longer peaceful. Something about the smell of woodsmoke in the air left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Charlotte’s mother was a monster and Charlotte was in her grips. I had to rescue her.
“Why did Charlie say her mother was a monster?” I asked mine.
“All mothers can be monsters, sometimes. And it was a metaphor. She’s not really Mallificent or a monster. Charlotte was just cross with her mother. We all say things we don’t mean sometimes.”
If I’d understood irony back then, I may have realised what my mother was really trying to say.
*
My name is Theodora and I am the Problem Child.
My name means gift of God. And that I certainly am. But which God?
In the era of Ice and Fire, the word “gods” takes on a different meaning. There are the Old Gods and the New Gods, the Drowned God, The Lord of Light, The God of Many Faces, and the White Walker. Who am I a gift from?
Or maybe they got the prepositions wrong and I am really a gift FOR the Gods. Much like Craster’s sons, I existed to placate the White Walker. I was a sacrifice. Or maybe I’m a gift from the gods back to humanity, a sort of chew-them-up-and-spit-them-out type gift. I am a cautionary tale. This is what happens to children who piss off the gods.
Am I even really alive, or just a reanimated zombie corpse with a vengeance on all those who did me wrong when I was alive? I don’t know. My eyes are still brown, they never turned blue like those of wights. I still have a pulse. But I may as well be dead.
I’m no one special. I’m just a kid with a vivid imagination, absent parents and a need to run around in circles, both literally and metaphorically. I’m not even particularly bright. I often don’t get things like sarcasm and metaphors yet, but I will eventually. I’m not evil. I have feelings that are easily hurt. But I never meant to do anyone any harm. I’m little, I’m not even six yet.
But I’m creative. People have said a lot about me, but no one ever said I lacked imagination. I like to make up stories and this story is too good not to tell.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who pissed off the wrong psychopath.
This is my story.