The paper has been passed out. A barn. I scrounge for my red crayon to color this paper as best as a 1st grader can. I glance over to the boy near me. A twisting feeling of anger bubbles up after viewing what was gripped in his grubby, little, kleptomaniac hands. My red crayon. The teacher assistant crouches down, asking me why I'm not coloring in what sounded to be a condescending tone, telling me that the image I was viewing was not, in fact, a thief using my possession.
I protested this injustice to the person who I thought could help me, only to be met with brutal stabs to the back as she brushed off my problems like they were a speck of dust on her shirt. Claiming his innocence like a mother claiming her son couldn't have done anything wrong, and that he was a good boy. Pleading to a court to let go of her baby boy. Except that court was just composed of a small, first grade me who was just robbed of the thing she needed most at that time. My red crayon.
She claimed that he couldn't have taken the crayon as it was right in front of me. She reaches into my crayon box and pulls out this "red" that still haunts me today. She sets the "red" crayon in my hand like she had done something. Like she had just solved the case. The case of the missing red crayon.
I was on the verge of breaking down. I could not stand the sight of my crayon in another's hand who I had not given permission to. I wanted my barn red. I wanted my barn red. I needed my barn red. I grip the crayon, clenching my fists while staring down at this "red." I decided it couldn't get any worse. I'll try it, maybe it is red, right? My hand takes the coloring position with this "red" crayon in place of what should have been there. The colored wax hits the paper and streaks across it. Up, down, up... I stop. It was orange.
That orange crayon that is tinted slightly red, however, the wrapper reveals its true colors. Some tears escape my eyes and I quickly try to dry them, trying to not have anyone see my mess of a self. I knew I was foolish, crying over a crayon, but it was my only red crayon. I wanted a red barn, and was given "red."
YOU ARE READING
Red Crayon
Short StoryIn 9th grade, I was told to write about a memory. I wrote about the time my red crayon was stolen in 1st grade. One of my friends told me the story sounded a lot like a Wattpad story and said I should post it here. Enjoy!
