Green-haired painter

Once upon a time there was a little girl with green hair. Her real hair was not green, but brown. She loved to draw. She had a gift for it. She drew everywhere, on paper, on a notebook, on the wall… Everywhere. She used the colors of the rainbow, and most of all, red. Red stood out the most. She used it the most. She usually let her imagination run wild and drew like that. For hours, days, years… she was locked in her studio. She had her greatest inspiration at night. Then her four walls would become a large canvas that she would paint with her red paint. Her brushes were always sharp, warm and clean. One night she decided, she started drawing on herself. She didn’t know what to draw. No one was there to help her, to stop her. So she started. She walked, walked and walked. She no longer looked where she was going, her feet led her on their own. Deep down, she was frustrated that she didn't know what to draw, that she wasn't drawing well enough. She kept going until she fell. Then it was all over. She was gone, she had disappeared. All that remained was her backpack with her drawings. Her works remained, her studio, her bed, but she was gone. No matter how hard she tried to color her life, she couldn't, because it was black. Her green hair wasn't green no matter how much she dyed it, it was brown. She took most of her works with her, works whose canvas was herself. All the crayons remained, except for the red one. The red paint was spilled where the green-haired painter had fallen.

(That girl didn't ask for help. She painted alone, exclusively alone. She went to a place where no one would disturb her, where she wouldn't compare herself to others. Where she would be able to paint with all colors, except red. She spilled the red, melted it in the place where she disappeared.)