Drawing after drawing showed her mother growing more monstrous: faces twisted with rage, mouths stretched too wide, hands clawed and looming. And with each picture, Priscilla herself grew harder, her figure sharper. Her smiles vanished. Her features became cool and distant.
Yet every version of her bore the same detail—a fractured heart sketched into her chest, as if no matter how mean or terrible she became, it hurt her to wear that armor.
The first drawing with an unbroken heart inside Priscilla’s chest introduced someone new. A white-haired woman stood beside Priscilla, sketched with far more care than the others before her. She wore an apron and what looked like a crown of sticks—or perhaps bones—and she was holding out a red-haired doll. Priscilla’s drawn grin stretched impossibly wide, filling her entire face, the heart in her chest finally whole.
It should have been a happy picture.
But it was the words written carefully down the side of the page that made my throat tighten.
Ms Cole saw Priscilla was sad after her mom’s trial and gave her a doll to play with. Ms Cole didn’t know Priscilla was sad because her mom was given another chance and wasn’t exiled. But at least now Priscilla has a friend.
The third-person narration hit harder than anything else she’d drawn.
So young and already speaking about herself like someone watching from the outside.
The next drawing showed Priscilla sitting on the floor of her bedroom, her doll cradled in her arms. She was smiling, and the room around her was filled with color and detail, as if ithad mattered to draw it right to capture her happiness in that moment.
In the corner, written in careful, rounded letters, were the words:Priscilla and Purdy play make believe. Priscilla pretends Purdy is real.
The drawing that followed shattered that happiness completely.
Priscilla was sprawled on the floor, tears streaming down her face. Purdy lay broken in front of her—limbs torn away, a jagged crack running straight through her face. In the doorway stood Isadora, drawn taller than the rest of the room, her mouth stretched into a wild, manic laugh.
The words beneath were uneven and pressed too hard into the page.
Mother says Priscilla does not deserve a friend if she cannot make friends in real life. Mother says Priscilla must find her voice, to convince people to give her their things. Priscilla will not sing. Priscilla will not steal. Priscilla will run away for good this time.
The next drawing was split cleanly down the middle.
On the left side was an unmistakable depiction of Caitlyn’s—our—house. Its windows were cracked, spiderwebs clinging to the corners, and a full moon hung heavy overhead. Priscilla had drawn herself running toward it, tears streaking down her face, Purdy clutched to her chest in broken pieces.
Beneath it, in cramped, hurried writing, were the words:
Priscilla chose the scariest house in the coven to hide in and hoped her mother would never find her and Purdy.
The right side of the page was brighter.
Purdy sat in the attic—thisattic—whole again. An electric purple glow surrounded her, lines crackling with energy as if the page itself couldn’t quite contain it.
The words here were bigger. Priscilla had been so excited when she’d written it, the words practically bounced off the page.
The house woke up. The house helped Priscilla fix Purdy. And then Purdy came alive too!
“You always belonged to Priscilla,” I said quietly.
Creep—Purdy—kept her gaze fixed on her feet, but she nodded.
The next drawing showed Priscilla lying in her bed, her mother looming over her, mouth wide in a silent scream. Priscilla’s face was different now. Gone were the tears. Her expression was cool and controlled. The same detached composure I knew all too well.
But inside her chest, her heart was whole.
Beneath the picture, the words read:
Priscilla went back to her mother. Priscilla could handle her now because she had a real friend to sneak out and see.
The drawings that followed were happier.
Priscilla and Purdy playing together in the house. Tea parties. Dress-up. Make-believe battles and daring escapes. Their adventures grew more elaborate as the pages turned.
