I almost cannot tell you what happens next.
It is too, too terrible.
The pencils. All of them. 479- TANGERINE ORANGE and 935- HELIOTROPE PURPLE and 781- SEA TURQUOISE. Broken. Shattered. They've been stomped on and splintered and stamped out. They candlelight flickers over them, illuminating the crime scene. And one of my drawings, crumpled. I pull it out with shaking fingers.
The horse's wings have been crossed out with black pencil, hard enough to tear the paper.
TIME TO GROW UP, someone has written.
Someone.
Oh, I know who.
I want to race downstairs and throw myself on his bed and strangle his gangly neck while he sleeps. I want to rip his precious comic to shreds. I want to stomp on him, splinter him, break him into pieces.