Lily’s Coloring Book

My wife and I had our first child 10 years ago.

A beautiful little girl; so smart, so well mannered, and with each passing day we grew prouder of her.

It was evident from an early age that Lily was drawn to art, pun not intended.

For her 3rd Christmas, we got her one of those little white boards and some dry erase markers.

Remarkably, never once did she get any of those markers on her skin; every color went to the board.

Our baby girl would sit for hours on end, scribbling and erasing; drooling down onto the white board without so much as a whimper.

We began noticing she’d fuss when we had to peel her away from the thing; whether it be for bed or for bath time.

She’d throw these…tantrums…kicking and screaming, wildly.

They’d go on until she either fell asleep or went back to the board.

Time passes, though, and with that passing of time, came my daughter’s growing disinterest in both the markers AND the board.

My wife and I didn’t want our girl to lose touch with this seemingly predestined love for art, so together we came up with another idea.

A coloring book.

Lily had already shown such love for putting color to a background; now that she was older, coloring books were the answer right?

So, for her 6th Christmas, we went all out.

Crayons, water paint, gel pens, even some oil pastels.

The crown jewel, however, was the thick, 110-page coloring book that we wrapped in bright red wrapping paper.

We placed it in front of her other gifts.

It was one of those ones with the super detailed, almost labyrinth-like designs.

Of course, she went out of those intricate little lines more than a couple of times, but for her age? I was astonished at how well she had done on her first page.

It was like she knew her limitations as a child, yet her brain operated like that of someone much older.

Her mistakes seemed to torment her. She’d get so flustered, sometimes slamming her crayon or pen down atop the book as her eyes filled with tears.

My wife and I would comfort her in these instances, letting her know just how talented she truly was and how proud we were.

We could tell our words fell on deaf ears, though, and our daughter seemed to just…zone us out…

All she cared about was being better.

Nothing we said could change that.

And get better she did.

A few months after Christmas, I walked into the kitchen to find Lily at the dining room table, carefully stroking a page from her book with a crayon.

Intrigued by her investment, I stepped up behind her and peered over her shoulder.

She’d not broken a single line.

I actually let out a gasp of shock, which prompted her to turn around and flash a snaggle-toothed smile at me.

“Daddy, LOOK,” she shouted, proudly, flipping the book around in front of my face.

“I see that Lily-bug, my GOODNESS, where did you get that talent from? Definitely wasn’t your old man.”

She laughed before placing the book back on the table.

“Look, I did these too,” she giggled.

She flipped through the pages.

Every. Single. Page.

Every page had been colored.

I could see her progress, and how it went from the clear work of a child to comparable to that of an adult.

I felt the warm pride for my daughter rising up in my chest and tears began to sting my eyes.

“You are incredible, Lily. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.”

She beamed and the moment we shared still lives within my heart as though it were just yesterday.

The Christmas coloring books became a tradition, and every year we’d stock up on ‘em.

Kaleidoscope patterns, movie scenes, real life monuments, Lily colored to her little hearts desire.

So, what you’re probably wondering, is…why am I writing this?

Well, see.

I remember the books we got her.

I remember because I reveled in picking them out, choosing the ones that I KNEW she’d be most interested in.

Therefore, imagine my surprise when I was cleaning Lily’s room one day while she was at school, and found a book that I know for a fact we didn’t give her.

It had that same card stock cover as the others, the kind that glistens in the light; yet, there was no picture on the front.

No colorful preview at what the book entailed.

Instead, engrained on the cover was the title, “Lily’s Coloring Book” in bold lettering.

I made the regrettable decision to open it, and immediately felt the air leave my lungs.

Inside were dozens of hand drawn pictures of me and my wife.

Not just any pictures, mind you, Lily had taken the time to sketch us to perfection….while we slept.

The most intricate, detailed sketches I’d ever seen; the kind that would take a professional artist DAYS to complete.

As I flipped, the pictures devolved, and I was soon seeing drawings of my wife and I sprawled across the floor beneath the Christmas tree, surrounded by ripped coloring book pages and crayons.

Our limbs had been torn off and were replaced with colored pencils, protruding from the mangled stumps that’d been left behind.

Lily had colored our blood with such intimate precision that it felt as though it would leak onto my hand if I touched the page.

I stood there in a horrified daze. I couldn’t stop flipping through the pages, ferociously; each one worse than the last.

As I flipped through page after page of gore, I could feel that stinging feeling in my eyes return.

The tears welled up and filled my eyelids.

In the midst of my breakdown, one thing brought me back to reality.

The sound of my daughter, calling out from behind me.

“Daddy…?” She cried as my first tear drop hit the floor.