Chapter 6: Dr E. Walker, Psychiatrist Extraordinaire

~ Part 2: Takes One to Know One ~

A few hours later, I’m walking out of the village with Dorothy in tow.

The kid said she wanted to go play by the lake. Martha didn’t have any objection, but apparently she had work to do and couldn’t accompany her. So the sexy Viking lady asked me to go. I had no objections. Not just because I was afraid to refuse, I already accepted the role of babysitter anyway.

And a god had told me to finish that quest. Isn’t that awesome? I mean… Who can tell they received divine revelation for a babysitting duty? Just imagine. Genesis 22, revisited edition: And God to say to Abraham, “Take your son, your only son – yes, Isaac, whom you love so much – and go to the land of Moriah. Go and sacrifice him as a burnt offering on one of the mountains Go and ask Elric Walker to babysit the kid. You need a break and the brat will have a lotta fun. Peace, Love and Promised Land. G.”

Now that’s a Bible I’d enjoy reading. I wonder why God wanted Abraham to go to the land of Moria for his bogus sacrifice. Wouldn’t the dwarves try to stop some random Arab from killing a child?

Who knows? They’d probably kill them both for trespassing. It’s Moriah though, not Moria.

Anyway…

So here I am, going to the lake with little skipping Dorothy, while the Ice Queen goes off doing… whatever it is she does for a living. Probably butcher. Again I’m surprised at the willingness of the woman to just leave her daughter, adopted as she might be, in the care of a complete stranger. It’s a different culture I guess, or she has a way to keep tabs on me at a distance.

I wouldn’t be surprised…

As we make our way to the lake on the yellow brick road, I entertain Dorothy with retellings of my exploits.

“...in the bath with a chicken. But that’s another story. I found the beast deepest pit of the Mines of Skreweye. The monster looked asleep so I approached it with stealth, hoping to slay it before it woke. But it was a trap! And I found myself cornered in turn and– *cough!!* Oh, for fudge’s sa– *cough* *cough* Arrgh…”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Mr Elric Walker?”

NO, I’M NOT!! Isn’t it obvious?!

I glance down at the tiny immortal walking by my side. Well, I assume she’s immortal – or at least invulnerable – because she looks perfectly fine even after having swallowed far more of Martha’s poisonous cooking than I dared even look at. I had only eaten a spoonful, and that spoonful would have killed me if not for my painstakingly raised [Poison Resistance].

Even now, hours later, I’m still suffering from the aftereffects. My head is pounding and Dorothy won’t stop using Kage Bunshin.

That said, my condition is improving. Slowly, but it’s improving. Earlier, after waking up from my frustrating talk with the God of “Call me Bob” Chaos, my state was far worse. To tell the truth, I puked. Not my most heroic moment. I did feel better afterwards though. And Martha had come check on me.

For an instant I’d feared she’d come to finish me off, seeing as poison hadn’t done the trick, but things didn’t add up. Not that I believe she’d lose any sleep over killing little old me, but I doubt she’d try while I’m here to help her daughter on a request from the Elder. And why poisoning? A couple punches or strangling me in my sleep would have sufficed.

Or beheading. One must never underestimate the efficacy of removing one’s head from their shoulder.

Indeed. So it didn’t make sense for her to poison me on purpose.

…

It was then that a dreadful idea crossed my mind.

Could it be, that Martha was simply… a terrible, terrible cook?

No. No. That was ridiculous. A tasteless poison of that potency was something even the assassins of Last Testament – the shadow hands of the Temple – would have sold an arm to get. I had dealt with those brainwashed fanatics often enough to be positive of that.

I had to make sure.

“Eeeh… *cough* Miss…tress Martha?” I asked as I were cleaning the floor of my regurgitations. “May I know what this *cough* dish you served this morning called?”

“…”

There was a small silent during which she just stared back at me. Cold sweat was trickling down my spine. I feared she would find my question offensive somehow. Yasmin is always pissed when I’m unable to recognise the taste of whatever dish she… errr… created? …summoned? …brought to life? Yasmin is worse useless in the kitchen. She’s a danger, a biological hazard.

Don’t tell her I said that.

However eventually the answer came from the Ice Queen.

“…mashed potatoes.”

NO IT IS NOT!!

…

So that’s it. She is that bad of a cook. I confirmed. She even showed me the exact recipe she’d used.

And now here I am, lying through my teeth at a child with a forced smile plastered on my face.

“Yep. I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Don’t worry kid.”

Inconspicuously, I wipe the trickle of blood dripping from the corner of my mouth.

“…Just wait a second, will you?”

I discreetly chant a detoxification spell. I should have started by this earlier, instead of volunteering as cook. But the fear of having to eat that concoction again had, I believe, overwhelmed my embryonic common sense for a seconds back then.

…and of course, I’m out of antidotes. My lack of supply management would be the death of me. Well, a death of me. I’m far past keeping count. What is the antidote to mashed potatoes anyway?

*ting*

[Poison Resistance] has levelled up!

This again… I sigh. The passive skill had stagnated for the past few in-game months. No matter what I ingested it refused to budge. Even undead blood didn’t do the trick. And now it had levelled up three times in the span of a few hours because of a supposedly inoffensive purée.

Seriously, who are you Martha?

I glance up at my HP bar. Surely, it’s still decreasing, but not so fast anymore that it puts me in impending mortal danger. As a pseudo-paladin-terminator, I may lack much of the healing magic of my more “official” counterparts, but I still have a pretty large health pool and good regeneration rates. Which is probably also why I am here suffering and not pacing angrily in my flat waiting for the 24 hours death-ban to be lifted. I just have to wait for the sustained damages to decrease to levels inferior to my HP regen.

And feel like crap in the meantime.

I dismiss the window and refocus on the little girl by my side. She’s a weird one, that girl, that’s for sure. As soon as I had told her I was fine, all worry had immediately left her face. Really intriguing. I know children are prompt to believe adults, but right now I look pale, dishevelled, my eyes are obviously bloodshot, and I’m sure I didn’t cough blood as inconspicuously as I’d like to believe.

I look bad enough that I’d even frighten myself if I saw my face in a mirror, so I can’t help but feel her willingness to accept my word a tad off. I also don’t think she knows about adventurers and how injuries and death aren’t such an issue for us. I did mention I was a “Chosen One” but she didn’t seem familiar with the term.

Chose Ones is how most NPCs refers to players. Not every NPC though. Personally, I got used to hearing many colourful appellations such as “Bastard!”, “Madman!”, ““Not you again!!”, “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY PROPERTY!!”, “HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!!”, “CURSE YOU DEMON!!”, “PLEASE, PLEASE I HAVE A FAMILY!!”, “GUARDS!! KILL THAT MAN IN SHINY ARMOUR!!”, “NO! NOT THE FACE! PLEASE NOT THE FACE”, “MOMMYYYYYY!!” or simply “AAAaaargh...”

…

……

………

*cough*

I had a difficult childhood.

Point is, I can’t do anything about Dorothy’s odd attitude right away. So I archive that feeling of oddness in a corner of my mind and return to my earlier story.

“Where was I? Oh. Right. My epic battle to the death with the cruel and dreadful beast, [Squinting Earthworm of Doom “Louis Jean Philibert”]! The beast had laser beams shooting out of its a…”

 * * *

Eventually, we made it the lake. I think I saw that little bandit Roger on the way, but the rabbit only glared at me from atop a small hill before jumping down in a burrow. He’s probably angry at me because I saw him being scolded by his mom. Did his little pride get hurt? Awww~

What a brat.

The body of water is as I remember it. Huge, tranquil and infested with valley ducks. Near the shore, a vaguely familiar pair in the feathered group catches my ear.

“…and then she was all, like, duck, don’t be such a goose!”

“O my gosh! She totally didn’t!”

“She totally did! So I, like, goose-slapped the grody goose!”

“She sooo deserved that! What a slut!”

Oh goody.

I’m starting to really hate that skill. I’ll never be able to enjoy the peace of nature anymore. Damn you Bob.

I grab Dorothy by the hand and pull her gently away from the flock. She might not understand them, but I still feel like those birds somehow would be a bad influence on the child. Though, I wonder, what it is that ducks have against gooses? I didn’t know there existed such enmity between the two species. Are gooses really as licentious as the ducks seem to imply?

That would give a whole new meaning to the word “goosebumps”.

“Come on Dorothy, let’s go over there.” I point at a tree that had the double benefit of offering some shade for me to rest under and of being away from any foul-beaked palmiped.

“But I want to feed the duckies!” Dorothy protest with a cute pout.

…Argh! Too much… cute. Must. Resist. Pout!

“Well, Big Brother don’t like duckies, so where’re going over there.”

“Okay.”

She agrees easily. Ain’t I a natural with kids?

It think she’s just abnormally obedient.

Don’t burst my bubble.

I sit down with my back to the trunk. I’m not wearing my armour so I have no problem finding a comfortable spot between two roots. I vaguely expected Dorothy to immediately come pestering me to play with her, but the little girl betrayed those mine expectations. She’s already running around, looking perfectly content with her own company. My role boils down to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself, or fall into the lake.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

I have no idea if she knows how to swim. I’d think she does? It’d be a shame not to, with her village being barely more than a stone throw away from such a great swimming spot.

But I’m not about to ask. She might want to take a dip and I’m really not up for it. And it would be irresponsible of me not to join her if she went into the water. An accident is so quick to happen… like Martha “accidentally” stabbing my kidney for letting her eight-year-old daughter swim unsupervised.

For about an hour, I thusly sit unmoving, enjoying the quiet and warmth of spring and the caress of the breeze, while also looking over Dorothy as she runs, cartwheels, dances and… shadow boxes?

I think that was a cross-counter.

Martha, what are you teaching this kid?

At one point, Dorothy makes a crown of daisies. She comes setting it on my bald head – I’ll get my revenge one day Bob – and she declares me King of Flowers. Awwwwww~ What a sweetheart.

I don’t care if your mother is grooming you to become a bloodthirsty ninja assassin, you are the true antidote to that witch’s cooking.

I can feel the remnants of poison leaving me through her mere presence. Or not. But I like to believe it’s true.

Speaking of food, Martha was kind– or at least practical enough to prepare a basket of apples as lunch for the both of us. …I’m a little hesitant. I don’t think there exists a way to possibly poison unprocessed apples by inadvertence but… I would have sworn the same about mashed potatoes less than five hours ago.

I’m sure Dorothy would be fine, but I need to eat too. I’m gettin1g kind of hungry. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in… How long has it been? I can’t remember.

My dilemma resolves itself on its own however, when another familiar critter wanders in our direction.

“A-a-a-a-a-a-aple. Plea-ea-ea-ea-ease?”

It’s the uselessly well-mannered goat!

I smile brightly at the newcomer. Looks like I’ve found my guinea goat… pig. Whatever.

“Sure, here, have one.”

I throw an apple. The beast has no clue about my evil plan of evilness. She– I don’t like using “it” for animals I’m talking too. That makes me feel like I’m crazy or something. So, she catches the fruit in mid-air and immediately digs in.

I wait for a few seconds.

…

……

………

She… doesn’t appear to be dying. Good. I grab one for myself and take a bite. And – surprise! – I don’t seem to be dying either. Excellent!

Just how low have your standards dropped for “not lethal” to be your threshold of excellence for food?

Don’t judge me.

Meanwhile, Dorothy stops trying to whistle with a blade of grass and looks this way.

“Ha-a-ank u-u-u-u,” bleats the goat, again speaking with a full mouth.

She’s uselessly polite, for a goat, but her table manners are really deplorable. Well, she is a goat, I guess. Maybe my expectations are too high, for a goat.

I still feel the need to scold her.

“Don’t talk while eating.”

“Sho-o-o-o-o-owy.” At least she apologises.

This time, instead of walking away, the courteous ungulate plops down by my side and snuggles against my leg. Reflexively I start scratching her back. Goat fur is a little coarse, but it is still soft enough to enjoy petting. Besides, as per Elric’s rule number 103, “petting is always right”.

Odd titbit, I seem to have a strange synergy with goats. It’s not the first time one just decides I’m their new best friend. As puzzling as it is, there are a few precedents. Notoriously, this one carnivorous goat I met in Hell and whom I shared a roasted PKer with. It’s a good thing bodies of players don’t disappear right away after death like in most games, but only decays rapidly after the four in-game days of bans are over. You get to do so many fun things with the corpses.

Like sending their gift-wrapped decapitated head to their loved ones.

That day, with the goat of Hell, I discovered human flesh does not, in fact, taste like chicken. I’d say it’s closer to lamb, which made eating it in company of a ungulate a strange philosophical experience, though not an unpleasant one. And, yes, I know a lamb is the young of the sheep, not the goat, but it’s close enough that it doesn’t matter. Goats and sheep can even be successfully mated, did you know that? I bet you didn’t.

My profound reflexions on goats and sheep is interrupted when I notice Dorothy silently standing by my side. I’d forgotten about her for a second.

You are a terrible babysitter.

Shush you. She’s fine, isn’t she?

Like Hope was fine when you found her playing with a letter opener after falling asleep on sitting duty?

…err… Well, she was fine too.

Maybe, but you’re lucky neither Yasmin nor Daniel saw it.

What can I say? That little girl has been fascinated with literature since forever. I’m half-convinced she was born with glasses on.

You are despicable. But that’s okay. I forgive you.

I mentally shrug and cast a glance at my current babysitting charge then indicate the animal with a tilt of the head.

“You want to pet her?”

Dorothy nods wordlessly but doesn’t move an inch. I reach out to take her hand and guide it to the goat’s back. She let me pull her down and comes kneeling on the ground beside the animal.

“Here, knock yourself out. You don’t mind, do you?” I direct the last part as the goat.

“Fee-ee-eels goo-oo-oo-oo-oo-ood.”

I’ll take that as a “no”.

I observe the little girl’s face as she caresses the fur of my new horny friend. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean the goat. I can’t really say whether she’s enjoying it or not. Dorothy, not the goat. The goat is clearly enjoying it. But the little girl’s expression is… kind of blank actually.

Well, no need for me to play the guess game. I decide to just ask her.

“You like petting animals, Dorothy?”

“…I don’t know,” she replies after a small hesitation, her voice as bland as her expression. Her hand never stops moving across the goat’s back.

“Eh…” Not the answer I expected, but I suppose I can work with that. This Dorothy’s mind is a nut I fully intend to crack. Time to start Freuding it out. “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”

“I don’t know if I like it.”

Great. I see we have a firm grasp of the obvious.

It’s a start.

“But it’s soft, isn’t it?” I press.

“Yes,” she nods.

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate beyond that monosyllable.

…She’s not going to make this any easier for me, is she?

She takes after her mom.

“Do you like soft things?”

Finally, she looks up from the beast. For a long while, she stares at me a searchingly. What is she trying to find? Do I still have blood on my cheek?

Eventually she tilts her head and talks hesitantly.

“…I do?”

Was that a question? I ask her, but instead of answering she abruptly stands up.

“Dorothy?”

“I don’t want to pet anymore,” she drops flatly, before walking away. She sits down by the lakeside and stares into the distance. I scratch my head and sigh. I’m really not good with children.

You’re contradicting yourself.

I blame it on my lack of mental stability.

I can’t just let the girl be though. I’m on a divine quest for… err…

Unravelling the secrets of a war long past and potentially saving the world?

…Wow. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Pretty epic, uh?

Well, first thing first.

True.

Removing the head of the goat from my thigh, I stand up and give the rest of my half-eaten apple to the beast, then join the girl. I sit down next to her and remain silence as she resumes failing at grass whistling.

When she finally manages to produce a passable sound, she giggles happily and looks expectantly at me, as if waiting for me to praise her. But I’m not taking any more of the emotional weathercock act.

“Why did you want to pet the goat, Dorothy?”

…That sounded less weird in my mind.

Dorothy’s smile crumbles like a house of cards. She shrugs and turns away. She tries whistling again, fails, and frowns cutely at the blade of grass she is holding. She clicks her tongue in annoyance, too loudly and with exaggerated moues. It’s obvious she’s imitating something she saw someone else doing. Like when kids swear and don’t actually know the meaning of the words they say. It’s cute but it lacks natural. But it’s cute.

I watch her throw the blade away and pick another one before continuing her attempts.

“Dorothy?”

“…”

Ignoring me, uh? Too bad kid. Two can play this game. And ask my friends, I’m a master at ignoring people.

Amongst other generally rude and uncaring behaviours.

And while I do like kids, it’s mostly because they don’t needlessly complicate things like adults tend to do. I like kids because they’re honest and simple, and don’t overthink things.

Birds of a feather…

Shut up.

I like kids, but point is I don’t really feel like treating any gentler than I treat anybody else.

“Why did you want to pet the goat, Dorothy?”

Repeating it doesn’t make it sound any less weird.

Shush.

“…” Dorothy isn’t answering.

I actually don’t really care for the reason. I recall the Elder said Dorothy had lost her memories. Maybe she had a pet goat before, or any pet, and the repressed memory is trying to resurface. I’ll keep that possibility in mind, but what really interests me is in understanding her.

“Dorothy–”

She interrupts me and casts me an upturned glance.

“Hey! Big Brother, can you do the whistle? Can you show me how it’s done?” 

Awww~ She’s calling you Big Brother. What a sweet little manipulative bitch. I like her. Can we keep her? Can we? Pretty please~?

Only once did I refer to myself as Big Brother when talking to Dorothy and already she picked up on the fact I wanted her to call me that way. She’s good, and cute, I’ll give her that. But you can’t just tell me not to look at the man behind the curtain, kid. I’ve seen the smoke, now just be a good girl and show me where the fire is. Or at least point me in the right direction.

“Doro–”

“I’ll try again, okay? Look and tell me what I do wrong. Okay? Are you looking?”

This situation, obnoxious child plus water body, is far too close to something in my recent memory for my comfort. If this goes on much longer, I’m afraid I’ll throw Dorothy into the lake.

I’m a little teapot~

What can’t I throw you into the lake?

That’s called swimming.

I cover Dorothy’s hands with mine, blocking access to the blade of grass held between her thumbs.

“Dorothy, answer me.” I don’t repeat the question. I know she heard me. And it’s embarrassing.

She looks away, bite her lips and tug weakly in an attempt to free her hands. I sincerely hope Martha doesn’t suddenly pop out of nowhere right now, because it looks like I’m manhandling the girl. Thankfully, the God of Bad Coincidences and Clichés appears to be on vacation today, and the flag I just triggered doesn’t activate.

“Dorothy.” I try to sound firm. I don’t think I’m doing too bad a job at it, considering my lack of practise. Maybe I just sound annoyed though.

Eventually she turns back to me.

“I just wanted to try,” she mumbles discontentedly.

“Now was that so difficult?” I release her hands but she doesn’t pick up her attempts at whistling and keeps her eyes on me. “Why did you want to try?”

“I had never done it.”

“You never petted anything?” I raise a sceptical eyebrow.

I was dubious, but she shakes her head sideways. She doesn’t have any reason to lie that I’m aware of either.

…

She never petted anything? WHAT THE FUCK are you doing with this child, Martha???

…

……

………

Sorry about the F-word.

No. No! Don’t apologise! It’s a step in the right direction! Don’t you realise how silly you sound shouting things like “What the fudge” and “Holy Guacamole” all the time?!

I’ve never said “Holy Guacamole”.

You never???? Bloody fucking hell!! What are you doing with our fucking life?!

You’re contradicting yourself.

No, I’m not. This is this. And this is that. It’s good to be a little silly.

Can we just focus on the kid for now?

…

……

………

Hey? Someone’s there?

…Oh. Yes. Sorry. It’s just that you actually suggested to focus by yourself. I was shocked for a second there.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

I keep irritation at myself off my face and smile at the little girl.

“So, what did you think of petting then?”

It’s a bit of a rhetorical question, really. What can petting be but one of the greatest thing in life?

“…It was okay?” Dorothy replies with sincere, if a bit uninterested tone.

*CRACK*

…Did you hear something shatter into thousands of tiny fragments?

Yes, your hope for humanity.

Oh. Nothing important then.

I return to Dorothy.

“Okay? Erm… Would you do it again, then?”

She cast me a look of genuine puzzlement.

“Why?”

“…”

This girl really does have the ability to destabilise me. You don’t ask “why” to pet, girl. You just do! It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t need explaining!

“Err… Because it’s… pleasant?”

“Why is it ‘pleasant’?”

You tell me.

“Because… it’s… soft and warm? And it feels good?”

Now who’s answering in questions?

Oh, shut up.

“Does it?”

“…Yeees?”

“Big Brother, you’re making a weird face.”

It’s your fault.

“Answer my question, Dorothy. Would you pet the goat again?”

“No.”

“Argh…”

“Are you alright, Big Brother?”

“Yes. Yes. Don’t worry. I just need to… recover from an unexpected blow. Why not?” I add at her attention.

“Because I already did. Mama says once you understand something, you don’t need to do it again if you don’t want to.” She explains it as if it was very reasonable. And it is, in a way. Just maybe misapplied.

“And you don’t want to?”

“Not really…?”

This isn’t going anywhere. Another angle maybe?

“Why did you want to feed the duckies before?”

“I always feed the duckies with Mama when we come to the lake.”

I try picturing Martha happily feeding ducks. I fail. Somehow the scene in my head evolves into preparing fillet.

“And you like feeding the duckies?”

“…I guess?”

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“…No?” She tilts her head then shrugs. “Ducks are boring,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone that makes me die a little on the inside. “You ask weird questions, Big Brother.”

“People say I’m weird myself,” I mumble dejectedly. “So… is there anything you actually like doing?”

Unexpectedly, she answers immediately.

“Playing pranks on Dennis!”

A very understandable past-time.

Dorothy continues: “He always makes strange faces when I do! Sometimes he cries too.”

“That’s…”

Well, at least she’s enthusiast. That’s good, I guess?

“He’s older than me, though. He shouldn’t cry.”

I look with a raised eyebrow at the little girl who is nodding seriously in agreement with herself.

“What kind of pranks?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“Mmmh… I move stuff in his house. I hide his stuff. I make him do things and he can’t tell because I know something very embarrassing he did and he really doesn’t want Meg to know. Because he likes Meg, like, like like, not like friends, you know?”

She cast me a glance to make sure I understood. I only nod bemusedly. She tugs on her hair distractedly as she tries to remember.

“I put nettle in his pants once.”

…Hoy.

“I nailed his shoes to the ground. Not when he was wearing them though.”

…Should I say something?

Please don’t. It’s getting interesting.

“One time, I also set fire to his bed.”

Far from me the idea of contesting Martha’s flawless educational skills, but… What. The. Fu..dge.

My Little Pyromaniac. Arson is Magic.

“You can’t do that, Dorothy.”

“I know!” she says exasperatedly. “Mama was very angry. She told me never to do it again.”

Oh. Good. I thought she’d have told not to get caught next time.

That gives me an idea though…

“Dorothy, do you understand why you shouldn’t set fire to people’s things?”

The answer comes right away.

“Because Mama told me not to.”

I thought so.

One last question.

“Why did you want to come to the lake?”

“Mama told me I should be playing outside more.”

“And you always do what your Mama tells you, don’t you Dorothy?”

“Yes,” she nods seriously. “Because I’m a good girl.”

“You sure are,” I reply with an awkward smile and pat her head. What can I say? She’s cute.

Okay. I think that’ll do for now.

I stand up and looks down. Dorothy looks up and meet my gaze.

“You want to go and pet other animals? There’s a few bunnies around, and maybe I could catch a fox.”

This time, she seemed to put serious consideration into the question.

“Do other animal’s furs feel differently?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Yes? Especially the foxes. Their tails is really soft.”

“Then yes.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

I reach out. She takes my hand and I guide her away from the lake. We spend the rest of the day traumati– playing with the critters of the meadow. I would catch one, then the Dorothy would pet them with the most serious petting face I ever saw in anyone.

Unfortunately, despite my best attempts, Roger the Rabbit Robber eluded capture.

Next time, Roger. Next time.

Eventually the little girl’s energy runs out and I have to carry her in my arms back to the village. She dozes off before we even reach the gates. She’s really spent. As I walk towards Martha’s house, I peer at her angelic sleeping face.

You’d never expect this is the face of someone who burns beddings for fun.

 No. You would not.

So, any plan on how to deal with the little cute devil?

Not yet. But I’ll figure something out.

At least now I think I’ve guessed what’s wrong with the child.

This girl, Dorothy, is emotionally stunted and far too practical for a child her age.

In other words…

She’s a fucking psychopath.

…Yeah.

But she’s cute.

Why ‘but’?

* * * * *