My daughter, Alana, used to be perfect. She had a bright smile, blue eyes, and a beautiful personality. Her personality translated into her art. My daughter had drawn beautiful pictures since she knew how to pick up a crayon. She was an angel. That was until the drawings changed. 

One morning I woke up at 6:00. I had to get my daughter ready for school and out the door by 7:00. This morning was supposed to be normal. But when I walked into Alana’s room, I was surprised. Alana was already up, which was odd because she was never awake before me, but I shrugged it off and walked over to her. I said, “Good morning, sweetie. Are you going to start getting ready for school while I pack your lunch?” Alana only mumbled. Thinking this was strange, I asked her to turn around. When she did, I was shocked. She looked exhausted. When I asked when she had gone to bed, she shrugged and said she had lost track of time because she was drawing. When I asked her to show me the drawings, she moved so I could see them. What I saw still haunts me. The pictures, which I expected to be filled with color, were dark. The images were of family, friends, and even neighbors, and in all of them, everyone was dead. The pictures were gruesome, and I asked Alana why she drew them. Her only response was, “I wanted to show you what I could do!” She seemed proud of her drawings and what she had accomplished. When I asked what she meant by “I wanted to show you what I could do,” she handed me a picture. I realized it was a picture of my wife and me in bed. The pajamas matched what we had worn to bed, but something was off. The image depicted me asleep, but my wife was dead. She had stab marks all over her. Immediately I ran to my bedroom. Once in my bedroom, I realized what my daughter had meant. My wife was in bed, and where the stab marks on my wife were in Alana’s image, they were in the same places on her body. My wife was dead. I turned around, horrified, and standing in my bedroom doorway was Alana. Now that I could see her in the morning light, I noticed she was covered with Heather’s blood. In her hand, she held a knife. My daughter looked at me and asked, “Did you like my picture, daddy?” She started walking towards me, adjusting her grip on the knife. My eyes widened, and I looked back at the picture and realized my wife was not the only one with stab wounds. I, too, had a stab wound through my heart. I looked back at Alana and started backing up. Before darkness struck, she said, “Do you like how you look in the picture, daddy? Do you want me to show you what I can do?”