*Or, “How I was Scared to Death of a 7 Year Old.”
I have no idea what inspires people to reproduce, other than to satisfy their God complexes. Children are basically tiny humans with completely malleable personalities, and no verbal filters, so they can learn any behavior and express any emotion without remorse. This is truly terrifying. Your child is a like a tiny, snot-covered window into the recesses of your tarnished soul. They pick up your personality disorders like a dog picks up fleas, and suddenly you’re standing in line at Starbucks with a 3 year old who is calling the cashier “mentally slow” and shrieking how they “want room for cream, dammit,” with the lisp of an adorable cherub. Holy shit. I bet you forgot that your toddler was present for your adult tantrum. Now the whole world is staring at your sweet angel, not-so-secretly thinking about what a ass hat you are, and that they ought to contact child services.
Don’t worry. For the most part, you have to do some pretty heinous shit for your child to be so messed up that they can’t find some faucet of society that accepts them. Surely they will be able to bond with other emo snots who are searching for meaning in skin-tight jeans and man bangs.
But, keep this in mind when you stab your husband with a letter opener in the living room during your 2 year old’s Seasame Street-theme birthday party: serial killers pretty much have to fly solo.
I was watching a few kids the other day while their parents were otherwise engaged (in a life skills workshop, how ironic) when my heart fucking stopped from looking into the eyes of evil. She was 7 years old, and she was furiously drawing something that looked like a knife. Or the Statue of Liberty’s torch. I wasn’t sure, so I threw a meaningful glance in the direction of my friend/co-worker, who I could tell – from the shocked look on her face – saw what I was seeing too.
[This is the point of the Japanese horror film where the stupid protagonist bitch stops trying to help the creepy little girl because she’s realized that normal children don’t grip their crayons like hammers and scribble black holes. Or wear all their nasty, unwashed hair in their face. It’s just not normal. That kid doesn’t need your help; she wants to eat your face off with her little bat teeth! Duh!]
This may be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure this kid was humming a creepy little tune to herself while she scribbled blood all up over those daggers. I felt this with the utmost sincerity: fuck my life. I am not a psychologist in any sense of the term; even worse, I had just finished reading Deeper than Dead by Tami Hoag, in which a little boy goes all batshit crazy and stabs another kid on the playground.
I don’t want to die by the hand of some 7 year old who can’t draw for shit.
Well, being a totally responsible adult and all, I knew I had to reach out and help this kid (just like every other retard in Hollywood horror flicks). What are you drawing? I said, in my sweetest, most nauseating, I-can-be-your-best-friend voice. “A picture,” was the super curt response.
Fuck. She’s fucking crazy and she’s secretive. She’s totally going to find out where I live and hide under my bed. And then stab me to death while giggling creepily!
So I pretended to not be interested. And kept coloring my picture – which was so nice and happy, I was certain it was imbued with the power to eradicate serial-killer-like tendencies.
Well, Psycho Sally (not her real name) finally took the bait. She moved closer and closer, and finally, in that sweet, scary little voice of hers, she announced that my picture was pretty – and asked if she could have it.
Never in my life had I more willingly given up a piece of my work. Please, I thought, little crazy girl – be cured by the power of Bob the pink deer!
Well, now came the next stage. Homegirl wanted my shit, and since I had given it to her, she was going to be my friend. At this juncture in my narrative, she has now cut out her bloody knives and pasted them in the hands of a deranged stick figure. Oh, and written the words, “You are going to be dead” across the drawing. WHAT THE FUCK, LITTLE GIRL??!
Well, because the little girl was now my friend, I – and my co-worker – continued our desperate inquiry about her artwork. She then told us that her cousin had been murdered. Someone had come into the house and stabbed said cousin.
ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW, LIFE?!
Surely, you jest. All those fucking movies about crazy children are based on fact? Disturbed children like to draw violent images? I probably should have already known this, but crap. I felt like I was living in an episode of Dexter. Hey look everybody! I found a future murderer! Now all I have to do is teach her to only murder bad people, and how not to get caught by the police!
Someone should make a television show about my life, like seriously.
Well, anyway, Little Psycho’s mom came to collect her – I was hoping she’d learned some useful life skills – and we parted ways. The kid took my drawing with her. And cracked a smile. So, yes, public at larger – my superior happy art skills may have saved your life. Because of me, you will not be stabbed to death. I like to be thanked via PayPal.*
*Don’t get fucking pissed, I know this kid needs a freakin’ psychologist. But sometimes, it’s therapeutic to laugh at how art mimics life. And I’m fucking traumatized as shit – if I murder you in your sleep, you’ll know why. And your family will forgive me because I obviously couldn’t help it – I looked into the eyes of pure evil, and they drove me to do it. Duh.