“Grab me by the throat”, demands the fourteen-year-old.
“I’ve been learning self-defence. Grab me by the throat.”
I tentatively place a hand on her neck.
“Both hands, tighter!”
“Are you sure-”
I wrap my hands tightly around her neck.
“Okay, this might hurt”, she warns, before attempting to undo my hold with an elaborate arm movement. My grip remains. She looks perplexed and shouts:
“Okay, grab my throat again.”
“But we just-”
“Grab my throat!”
I grab her throat. The five-year-old is now watching, transfixed. Again, the fourteen-year-old tries, and fails, to escape my clutches. She shouts:
She wanders over to her school bag, pulls out a self-defence pamphlet and studies it.
“Okay, last time, grab my throat.”
I sigh and oblige.
This time, she swings her arm, like a wrecking ball, and crashes her fist into my groin. I release my grip, omit a groan and collapse to the floor. She leaps on top of me, like a leopard coveting its kill.
“Oh God! What are you doing!?” I fume, clutching my crotch.
“Detaining you, until the police come”, she explains.
“What? Get off!”
“This isn’t self-defence, this is revenge!”
The pain in my groin increases.
“I need ice!”, I beg.
“The police aren’t here yet.”
I feel faint.
“You look really white”, she laughs.
“It’s not funny!”
“Shall I call the police?” asks the five-year-old.
She obeys her sister, and makes her way to the phone.
I stagger to my feet with the fourteen-year-old attached to my back, her hands clasped around my neck. I wrestle the phone off the five-year-old. She starts kicking me.
“What are you doing!? Stop.”
“But I haven’t done anything!”
“You are the attacker”, she reasons, before snatching the phone and running upstairs.
I chase her, my thighs burning with the burden on my back, my balls still aching. My long legs enable me to take two steps at a time and I gradually close the gap. I am close enough to hear the buttons clicking as she frantically dials. Her pony tail is in reach, but I decide against grabbing it. Instead, I dive for her, rugby style, and manage to tap her foot, tripping her up, sending the phone flying. As I land, the fourteen year old’s teeth crash into the back of my head, causing a sharp pain.
There is a moment of calm, as we scan the floor, panting.
I spot the phone and seize it. The fourteen-year-old begins pulling my hair and gouging my eyes. The five year old punches at my stomach. I blindly flail my legs in retaliation. I manage to remove the battery from the phone, and fling it to safety. I dig my fingers into the fourteen-year-old’s ribs and she releases herself with a yelp. I rub my head, open my eyes, and I scream:
The Male Nanny