The Poor Little Girl | Teen Ink

The Poor Little Girl

January 19, 2011
By Lacer GOLD, Highland Village, Texas
Lacer GOLD, Highland Village, Texas
19 articles 0 photos 72 comments

Favorite Quote:
The thing about philosophy is that it often runs dry when thought of so shallowly.

He was sad when he buried her, the poor little girl. She was a laughing, beautiful child. Her hair had been in long golden locks and her face so sweet and mild like the picture perfect princess of a fairy tale. He reminisced his day, and recalled what she had looked like exactly at the beginning of the morning.
She had been wearing a blue dress, specifically the dark blue that matched ocean waters. In fact, if he recalled correctly, he remembered her favorite color was blue. Pink was too bright for her, she liked colors that, how did she put it? Dampen the brightness of her life. She had been wearing a…light blue blouse, with dark blue buttons that matched her dress as they crawled down to it.
Her hair had been free this morning. No pigtails, no bun, not even her favorite ponytail styled her hair. She was letting it hang down as it was. The blonde was not like the color you would expect to see. Something about it was special. It was a different kind of gold, dark-yellow but still had that valuable shimmer. The hair had clouded her eyes throughout the day and she would try to blow it with her mouth out of her face and when she was unsuccessful she would giggle and twirl it in her fingers.
Her fingers. He remembered the texture they were when he held her tiny hand in his rough palm. So soft and young, like a…a… baby’s bottom! Yes that was it! Not that he had actually tested the comparison, but still, he had a favor for analogies. Skin that pale pink, not the kind of pink she hated but like a peach, a rosy little peach. The bone underneath was so meager, so delicate and breakable, like a baby bird. So easy to snap in half, to mutilate, and with no device necessary! His hands were all the tools he needed. His knife had been left in shop, rusted and broken after such a length of no washing and overuse.
The face, once so innocent and unafraid, challenging the world to bring more trouble, was no more like what it had once been. He couldn’t claim to be proud of his new artistic masterpiece. Dare he feel shame? It wasn’t as if this was his first kill, his first corpsemaking. He was a corpsemaker, where his tools were his hands and knives and life (or is it death?) was his canvas, he would create the beauty that he needed from the remains of his “muses.” She had been the greatest.
She was certainly the youngest of his pieces, and arguably the most beautiful. She was the most innocent, the most caring, and the most compassionate. She was also the most tortured. Not only was he the one who squeezed her heart to make it pop, but the people around her too. Her father was a terrible, foul breathed man and her mother was long deceased. Sometimes she would walk home the long mile to school alone, on the days that he wouldn’t walk with her. When they walked together she always smiled and told him nothing of her sorrows, and then he would give her a piggy back ride until she reached home.
He had never met her father, but he had killed him. Not with the artistic boldness that his victims confronted, but with the hand of vigilance, improvised justice.
He loved the girl. He was proud not of what he had done to her but what she had become through all her life. Through bullies and abuse she had struggled through to become this ripe young girl, no more than eight years old.
But he had suffered his hand for the sake of his art. No matter how beautiful she was, his art was always more beautiful. Look at her now, with eyes wide and red with blood. Her hair streaking with scarlet, it ran down her face with no reaction. Her mouth was gaping in the silent horror only the dead can portray. Her face was facing upwards, but only because the body had been bent unnaturally along with her neck as she lay on the ground, waiting to be buried.
Oh the poor little girl was beautiful beyond belief now! What with her fingers sprawled in unorthodox twists and one leg in a similar, unnatural pose. She was the pinnacle of his artistic glory and she would remain so forever. He would never forget that girl; the beauty of this fine, free woman who now joins the rest of his prey. Rest in peace, little girl. Your friends will soon join you.

The author's comments:
This is probably one of my creepiest stories. What with the evil artist and the mutilated corpse I have mixed feelings about it. It is not my best written, it is not my favorite but there is something about it I can't put my finger on. Perhaps it is because I am the artist, and the little girl is something I hate and love in my subconscious.

Similar Articles


This article has 2 comments.

Lacer GOLD said...
on Jan. 22 2011 at 9:14 pm
Lacer GOLD, Highland Village, Texas
19 articles 0 photos 72 comments

Favorite Quote:
The thing about philosophy is that it often runs dry when thought of so shallowly.

Ty for the feedback :3. Ur the first person to give me any (btw, artists always give away their paintings)

queenbee1888 said...
on Jan. 21 2011 at 9:35 pm
loved it. it didnt really make sense that he just buried her going through all the effort to make her. u shud describe how he killed her more also