Tales of Paper & Pen

Envy will either end in harm to others or oneself

The walls were white, streaks and splashes of red dressing them in splendid fashion. The floor was white as well, grooves and scars littering it in vile indignation. Meanwhile, amidst the chaotic decor, a small figure was cradling itself in the room’s center. She was mumbling to herself.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she’d mutter with a subtle prideful tone.

“Oh, how ugly,” she’d then say with chagrin. “You can do better than this.”

A giggle would then escape her chapped lips. It was raspy, yet filled with childish delight. Her eyes would dart around the room, seemingly searching for something. They were filled with spite.

Resting on the floor in front of her was a piece of paper, one of its tips soaked in red. Reaching out, the little girl picked it up and turned it around. On its surface was a crude drawing. The colors did not match and the lines were either jagged or squiggly. Any artist would look at it and say it belonged to a child’s hand.

The drawing was of a generic house, and in its windows were two figures: a grown woman and a young girl. They were holding hands and smiling brightly. It was childish, yes, but it was innocent and pure. Looking at the drawing with a cold gaze, the little girl’s hands began to tremble.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she’d mutter in a trembling voice. 

There was a pause. 

“Oh how ugly,” she’d then say with a chilling tone. “You can do better than this.” 

And so she threw the paper to the side, letting it drown in a puddle of red.

Day after day—or what the girl assumed to be days—the white room tainted by scars and blood slowly shrank. Yet the girl did not seem to care as she continued to cradle herself in its center.

Suddenly, her hands shot to her ears. The whispers were back.

“You should play an instrument,” the quiet voice of a woman would whisper.

Involuntarily, the little girl’s hands began to move. They would strum invisible strings and press invisible keys. They progressively quickened their pace until it looked as if she was truly holding an instrument in her hands.

“Can’t you do better?” The same woman would whisper.

The little girl’s fingers paused, and, as if dejected, her hands retreated back to her chest.

The whispers continued.

“You should play a sport,” the woman would whisper.

“You should do painting.”

“You should join a choir.”

“You should…”

And again and again, the same spiteful words would follow: “You can do better than this.”

As the whispers of the woman tormented the little girl, she sat up, cradled her knees, and stared at one of the distant walls, or rather, the distant school gate.

The discordant chatter of children and adults filled the little girl’s ears, drowning out the whispers of the woman. The gate was crowded with kids waiting for their parents. In the girl’s eyes, they all looked identical.

“Mom! Mom!” A childish voice shouted. “Look what we made in class today!”

Towering above the excited little boy was a woman whose smile shone brightly. Lowering herself, she received the picture with great care and gentleness.

“Oh, how lovely~” the woman said with pride. “Is this me and Dad?”

“Yep!” The sweet little boy shouted.

“It’s beautiful, sweetie. Let’s put it up on the fridge when we get home, okay?”

The beaming boy nodded fervently as he reached for his mother’s hand and left.

Meanwhile, a shadow enveloped the little girl who watched the sweet exchange between the mother and son. She looked up, her eyes clouded over.

“Well?” A woman’s voice asked with impatience.

The little girl stared at the woman, rage swelling in her heart.

“Well?” The little girl mimicked.

“Excuse me?” The woman said with a strained tone.

The little girl smiled wickedly as she slowly rose to her feet.

She sighed despondently.

And so the woman watched in horror as the little girl unveiled a pair of scissors and sliced her neck.

“Bye, bye,” the little girl said between gurgles of blood.