Inside a child’s toy box lays an array of sorts: blond Barbies, plastic teacups, rubber animal bands. Buried within is a box of crayons. Listen closely—there is a faint chattering from inside, bursts of laughter and tiny thumps against the walls. Inside, a children’s classroom unfolds—colorful drawings pasted across the walls and patterned carpets, tiny desks and sleeping bags, bookshelves full of bedtime creatures. In the corner, there is a square of rough sandpaper thick with grey and a roughly drawn ruler with markings of various colors along it—a whole lot of pink and blues, along with some dots of yellow and red, and a single faint line of grey. A large door covers the middle of the wall and five lightbulbs line its edge, one radiant with pink.
Along the wall near the board, a tall grey girl curls up with a book; beside her, a yellow boy half her height leans against her shoulder, reading along. In the corner, a red boy with arms covered in dents builds a tower with blocks, but before he finishes it, kicks it down and starts again. A short blue boy lays under a blanket, but he has been awake for a while—his eyes remain closed, and he does not move.

The pink lightbulb against the door flashed, and the children lifted their heads in unison as the door slid open and a pink girl with roused cheeks and a frilled dress flounced out. Wearing a great grin, she conspicuously hid something behind her back.
“Guess what they gave me—”
Yellow crawled curiously up to Pink. “Is it candy, Pink? Y’know, the kind they got you last week, the sweet thing that sticks to your teeth…”
“Somethin’ even better.” She whipped out a Barbie doll from behind her back. “Look! Ain’t it pretty? All brand new, too—I unwrapped it from a fresh package while I was with ‘em.”
“Is it some kind of special day?” Grey asked.
“Nome’, they jus’ got it for me.” She noted Yellow and Red’s curious gaze. “Y’all can play with it if y’all want. Jus’ remember to put it back in my box.”
As Yellow and Red scurried over to examine the doll, Pink galloped over to Grey. “Now, what’ve you been up to today? Wanna measure me up? I got a whole lot shorter than yesterday, fo’sure—”
Grey set down her book and examined her up and down, frowning. “You look tired. Stop worrying about how much you got shaved down and get some sleep. You’re gonna get called out tomorrow, too—”
Pink insisted, pulling her arm and whingeing. Finally, Grey complied, chalking a thick line above Pink’s cowlick. “Now go sleep; you’ve been out for seven hours today. You’re gonna get worn out.”
After some whining, everyone agreed to sleep early; Blue had already fallen to its mercy a while ago. They tucked themselves in, and after some squealing and playful kicking under the covers, the lights were out. Whispering ensued for a while, but eventually faded to hazy mumbling.
At night, while everyone was soundly asleep, the only sounds present were the faint breathing of the children and the rustle of sandpaper against skin.

When they awoke, Blue was already gone; the blinking blue light at the edge of the door explained his disappearance. His absence was a norm for the others—every morning, the door buzzed at exactly seven o’clock, and he returned in the evening—or on some special occasions, at night—never earlier. If you asked any of the children who they were most close with, not a single one would say Blue; he simply spent too much time away.
Pink had woken up on this particular day quite late. As she bristled from her daze and looked around, she realized that her toy box was wide open, and next to it sat Red with her Barbie in his hands.
Now, Pink was a fairly generous child, but she was also a bossy one with a high temper—she often stressed the importance of her authorization of most activities. And for it was her first time receiving something like this as well, her thin patience waded by previous good moods snapped, and she darted over, ripping the doll out of Red’s hands.
He let out a yelp, stumbling onto his backside as he swiveled to face her. He yelled, “What was that for?”
“This ain’t somethin’ you can touch without my permission! Should’ve asked me first, what d’you think yer doin’, lootin’ through all my stuff?”
Red scowled. “I didn’t do anything to it! You got that whole box of treats, can’t you share one?”
Grey and Yellow hurried over. “Don’t fight,” Yellow insisted, “I know you like that doll, Red, but it’s true that it’s Pink’s—and Pink, couldn’t you let him play with it for a bit? You know you’re the only one who gets stuff like this here. We couldn’t get our hands on one if we tried.”
Pink, huffing, leaned back into Grey, when there was a rattle and a clink as something dropped from Pink’s fist and onto the floor. Everyone looked down. It was a miniature, plastic arm, disconnected at the shoulder. A moment of stillness ensued—of shock, pure shock—and in each of the children’s heads, a different course of thought raced through. The silence was broken by a buzz and a red blur in their vision, and after a moment, Yellow tugged nervously on Red’s sleeve. He whispered something to him, and after a slight shove, Red crept out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Pink did not move from her position. Her mouth stood agape; she did not scream or cry or chase furiously after Red; instead, she slowly sank down, crawling to retrieve the broken piece of the doll, then stared blankly at the two pieces on her palms. Yellow nudged Grey, and after a slight exchange of glances, he left.
Grey carefully set a hand on Pink’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pink. I bet your parents can fix it for you when you take it to them later today—why, I bet they’ll get you a whole new one. Don’t fret…”

As the hands of the clock spun round and round, the children waited. However, the lightbulb did not glow pink.

Blue was the first to return. He had gotten noticeably shorter, ground down to his knees, and noticeably tired, shrinking into himself like a deflated balloon. Yet he noticed the heaviness of the atmosphere and cautiously plowed over to Yellow.
“What happened?”
Pink was curled up into a ball along the wall, her head in her arms. When she lifted her head, the children could see her eyes had swollen.
“Red wrecked my Barbie, that’s what happened. And they’re not callin’ for me. The whole day, they haven’t called for me.” She choked down a sob. “This never happened. Never! Not a single day; they would’ve told me beforehand if they were goin’ somewhere… doin’ somethin’…”
Suddenly, she jumped up. “Maybe they’re sick! That’s what’s goin’ on—they don’t want me to catch it from ‘em. They’ll be all healed up by tomorrow.”
Grey and Yellow nodded enthusiastically, grateful for the change of topic. “And they’ll fix up your doll for you, too… mhm, tomorrow…”
As Pink regained her smile from the affirmations, the door gave an abrupt buzz, and she whirled around expectantly; the door glowed red, and her smile soured as the door slid open and Red entered the room.
He was limping, and a large chunk of his right shoulder missing. Pink’s momentous surprise was evident; however, she quickly averted her gaze angrily, facing the wall.
“Red! What happened? You—”
Ignoring Yellow, Red stomped over to Pink and shoved her, toppling her over.
“You really gonna stay mad about a stupid doll? I didn’t even break it—you did! Now this wouldn’t have happened if you just shared, dammit!”
Pink lay in shock for a moment, then regained her posture. “It’s mine. Mine! Don’t have to share something that’s mine—now you’ve gone and cursed it, my parents didn’t call me today cuz’ you set me in a bad mood.”
Red snorted. “You know why they didn’t call you? Cuz’ they’re sick of your annoying little self. They ain’t gonna call you tomorrow, or the day after, they ain’t gonna call you ever. Cuz’ they’re sick of you, bitch.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Bitch! Bitch, bitch, bitch! You think you’re so high and mighty above everyone else, bitch! Now your parents don’t even call you, they don’t love you anymore. Bitch, bitch—”
Pink was shaking. Her face had turned purple, and she screeched, “At least my papa don’t hit me! At least I don’t come in here every day beaten up to a pulp—”
“Well, at least my papa didn’t leave me!”
The room exploded. Pink launched herself upon Red and smashed her fist into his jaw. The other children lunged in to pull her off, but Red had already regained his balance and grabbed Pink’s hair with one hand as he clawed at her face. They screamed and punched and bit, until Blue got hold of Red and the rest restrained Pink. As they were dragged apart, Pink continued to thrash before she exhausted herself. Both were crying, and after a while, the screaming faded into whimpers as they crumpled into themselves.
That night, they slept on opposite sides of the room, facing away from each other. The other children had treated their wounds and bandaged them up, but soft snivels of pain could be heard throughout the night.

The door did not buzz with pink. She sat and waited, staring pointedly at the door in silent prayer; Blue left, then Red, slamming the door behind him.
Yellow slept. Grey sat on the opposite side of Pink, rubbing the sandpaper steadily across the soles of her feet. Once in a while, she glanced towards Pink. Two days without use had taken a toll on her; her legs had grown beyond the hem of her dress, the seam of the waist now reaching slightly below her chest.
When Yellow awoke, it was already late evening; Blue had returned. He waddled to his blanket and slipped under the covers—his knees had been ground down, and only stubs of thighs remained, limiting his accessibility to motion.
“I’m worried,” Yellow mumbled to Grey. “Everyone seems to be breaking down.” “Worry about yourself. Do you know you’re turning green these days? The colors on your skin are bleeding into each other.”
He ignored her. “Did you see Red yesterday? His whole shoulder was missing. It’s been bad, but never this bad. I’m scared something’s gonna happen to him.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen. Worry about yourself…”
But she trailed off, and it was apparent she was uncertain in her own words.
Dusk came. Blue was already settled in his sleeping bag; recently, he seemed to do nothing but sleep after he returned. Pink sat in the same position against the wall, staring blankly at the door.
There was a buzz. The door slid open, and the children waited one second; two, three, four. The doorway lay empty. As Yellow was about to get up to search, two red objects flew out and thumped to the floor. The door closed as quickly as it had opened, and silence encapsulated the room as all eyes stared at the mess in front of the door.
Red was snapped in half. His upper and lower body were separated in a clean break—no jagged edges or mushy skin. His eyes were open, but glazed over; his chest rose softly up and down; he emitted no sound. His breath fogged as the lights above blinked, then slowly burned out.
Silence is like a fog—after enough time, silence becomes a sound itself. And so that night, they listened to the steady melody of silence that no one dared to break, as if that motion would snip the tune in half. In the dimming lights, they all crept into bed; no one approached the limp figure nor spoke to it. They did not hear the still tears, the fogging breath, of a soul fading away. Or perhaps they did—after all, silence can only be so loud.
In the morning, Red was gone. He had been removed while they slept; not a single smudge was left.

While nobody acknowledged his absence, the children had developed a collective avoidance of the space in front of the door. They would pointedly walk around the area; as they transported around the classroom, they kept far away from the silent taboo embedded into the carpet.
Pink and Grey never left the room. Pink lay limp in her sleeping bag most of the day—no one bothered her. Her box lay untouched, tucked away in a corner, rotting in the air of obsolescence.
Occasionally, Yellow would be called, returning days later with black and purple soaked into his skin. Blue was the only one who regularly left. Soon, it seemed like he was not able to grow back at all; his thighs disappeared, then his hips, and he could not walk anymore; every day, Grey carried him to the door and back. He never said a thing.
The day he came back with his arms rubbed off, Yellow began to cry. Grey watched without a word, and Pink sat tucked away against the wall, glaring out from between her knees.
“I’m tired, Yellow, I want to sleep.”
Grey carried Blue over to his blanket, where he rolled over and ceased to speak. The rest of the children aggregated on the other side of the room, huddled in a tight circle; Yellow, having calmed down, whispered in a clogged voice.
“We can’t keep letting him go out every day. He’s dying. They’re using him so frequently he’s not growing back anymore.” He turned to Grey. “Grey, don’t carry him to the door anymore. If they want him, they can wait until he’s grown back.”
Grey bit her lip. Pink scowled, and hissed, “Some people can’t even go if they want to.”
“Don’t say that. Blue’s not responsible for your parents leaving you.” Pink turned red. “You think Blue understands what me and Grey feel? We’re nothing. We have no use. We could literally rot here and no one would care. You don’t understand, dammit, you still got someone needing you! Thinkin’ you’ve got it so bad, your mama only calls you over to color over her problems with you, but at least you’re wanted! You don’t realize how goddamn lucky y’all are—”
Yellow turned to Grey, desperate for some kind of aid, but she averted her gaze. She glanced at the long-abandoned meterstick against the wall, and the ragged square of sandpaper beside it. Finally, she whispered, “Pink’s right, Yellow.”
Yellow burst out into silent sobs.

Blue lost his torso. He was disappearing at a frighteningly rapid pace, and after a while, Yellow refused to be awake when Blue returned; he slept before the door buzzed and woke after he left.
He was down to his neck. He seemed to have difficulty breathing, and it seemed like he wanted to speak, but no words came out when he opened his mouth. At night, he resided in the corner of the room, Grey keeping at his side.
The next evening, the door buzzed and opened. It took a second for them to see him; his nose and jaw had been carved away, and only his eyes and the top of his head remained. Pink buried her head between her knees. When Grey carried him to his corner, her hands trembled slightly. She hoped he did not feel it.
The night was a long one. No one was asleep; eyes wide open, they stared into the darkness without a word.
In the morning, the door buzzed at exactly 7 o’clock. As Grey rose to her feet, Blue softly closed his eyes. Nobody had slept, and nobody was sleeping. Eyes were closed; ears traced the heavy footsteps as they dragged to the door and stopped.
The door did not buzz that evening.

Pink was a corpse. She lay in the same position, unmoving, as her lips dried up like chalk. She would mumble something here and there, and when Grey would come to check, she would whisper, “What did I do, Grey? Did I do something wrong? Did I make them upset?”.
Grey was losing her energy as well. Everyone around her was fading. Slowly, she stopped sanding her soles, and her skin grew; her height nearly reached the ceiling. Yellow’s trips outside became more frequent, and each time, he would return with a new splotch of dim color covering his skin. It was almost as if the yellow had left his skin; it was harder to find a patch of yellow than it was to find any other color.
During the days, the two read. Pink never joined, although it seemed she listened silently as they sounded the words of the books aloud. Eventually, nobody spoke, nobody read, the book only spread open across the laps of the children as glazed eyes stared blankly at the whirling words on the page.
From beneath Yellow, muddy river pooled, bleeding from his cheeks and fingers and thighs. Slowly, he melted down. Not a single bead of yellow had remained.

The child has grown, and the toy box has collected dust. Blond Barbies, plastic teacups, rubber bands lay dull and obsolete. The crayon box is torn apart from age; after all, much time has passed. Look closely, and you’ll see—broken halves of the red crayon at the bottom; what remains of yellow melted from the summer heat and hardened onto the side; a few crumbs of the blue; the grey crayon is nowhere to be found—perhaps it has rolled under the bed, or perhaps the dog swallowed it whole. Nobody used it anyway.
All that is left is the pink crayon—it was only a phase, and she grew out of it after a while. A good chunk remains, but who’s going to use it? We’ve all grown out of that phase.
After all, crayons are for children.