A swirl of white danced with the movement of hinges, papers littering the walls and carpeting the floor. I glared at the ones closest; identical to the one she showed me hours before of our family standing outside our house. I waded further into her room, the drawings were changing. Now just one crude figure. Standing alone in the centre of the page. A red stickman with hands on hips, innumerable pages of this identical drawing. A foot poked from under the bed and I yanked her out. Her eyes bulbous, her pupils dilated.

    “What did I say to you?” My fury was crippling; insolence was unheard of in this house. “How dare you.” I tore the pens from her hands; she had ruined her beautiful­­ nightdress now covered in inky fingerprints. “This.” I motioned to her room. “Is unacceptable.” I swept around retrieving any drawing equipment she had. “Do you understand me?”

    She hadn’t said a word since I had entered; her eyes still white saucers.  I left with a slam, hauling the contraband to my room. I dumped it down but a single sheet flew up. I caught it. The isolated stickman, yet with some sort of emotion attached to it, I couldn’t excavate what it was trying to portray, I’ve repressed my artistic talent for too long, I can't analyse like I used to.

    The event had exhausted me and almost immediately I drifted off. When I awoke the moon’s candlelight was echoing the room. Why was I awake? I reached out my arm to the pillow where my husband usually lay; instead my fingers traced the paper. I sighed remembering the selfish act of my daughter until a scream stiffened my limbs. A continuous cry without a breath like a blaring fire bell. It rattled my brain as I swung open her door one hand shielding my ears from the high-pitched siren.

    She stood in the middle of the room her, bed turned over with the same figure violently scratched on its base. A delicate hand with bloodied fingertips was now holding one of my fruit knives. I watched my daughter drag the blade down, a nearly completed stick figure carved into her face. Her eyes locked with mine, shining with fear and a terrifying determination. An expression I am sure no other child has ever displayed. Those agonising seconds of watching immobility allowed her to finish her disfigurement. The screaming stopped.

    Streams of blood seeped from the wound into her eyes and pooled her lips as they spread into a heinous smile, she began giggling hysterically. She darted past me, her light feet peddled down the staircase. I followed her out the front door. I yelled for her, dispelling what the neighbours would say. I screamed her name, the automatic porch light flicked on illuminating the street and the dozens of silhouetted children marching down it. The same markings carved on their faces, all giggling, all ignoring me and I couldn’t see her.