The tip of her pencil moved to and fro across the dull worksheet she had been given that day, shading the scales of sleek fish, detailing the fur of meditating cats, and adding misty swirls to clouds. The grey marks opened up a small world inside of our own, and the clouds were pushed by a penciled breeze while the cats raised their heads and meowed curiously at the fish above them.
But the little land of cats and clouds and fish was not to be. The door opened at ten to midnight, and in stomped in that woman who was called mother. The cats jumped at the shouting between their creator and hers. The fish hid behind the clouds. The wind tried feebly to nudge the clouds off the edge and out of sight.
But it was too late.
A monstrosity appeared over them, a pink wedge. It tore at their graphite skins, their graphite souls, until not a trace was left behind.
Afterwards, numbers were written down. They said nothing,