My tip is dull from hours of mindless scribbling, and the fact that the sharpener is across the room in its white “doorganizer”, a felt door hanger complete with pockets. My eraser is coated, both on top and curved surface, with a permanent film of gray graphite dust. The film is smooth and shiny, like a polished rock, and would take hours upon hours of erasing a blank piece of paper to remove. I have dark violet and light purple, almost white, stripes running the length of my body, unfortunately making me look like a pencil crayon. I say ‘unfortunately’ since pencil crayons are childish, a final stepping stone for lowly beings before entering the world of gray graphite. Those stripes have small rips and punctures, a result of sharp teeth, both human and feline, mercilessly chewing me.

There are splatters of paint on me, reminiscent of the birthday party involving rowdy children and facepaint. I reside officially in a black plastic bin with unremovable dividers, however, I am more often found on the floor or on the table. The fact that I am so easily forgotten, not even worth the 5-second mindless burst of energy to pick me up and put me back where I belong, disgusts me. Dirty from the floor has collected on my body, testimony of the hours spent on the dusty carpet. 

Today, it is my second start-of-career day. That is the day that most humans will call their ‘birthday’. ‘Birthday’ is ill fitting for a pencil, for we have no exact birthdate—is it when I was manufactured in the factory when the purple paint coating me was mixed, when the tree forming the majority of my skeleton was felled? Now, the start-of-career day for a pencil is the day they are first used to write. My start-of-career day is January 29th, 2019. 

On that day, I was packed between twenty-three other pencils, all with colourful stripes like mine, in a clear box made of plastic film. A pair of grubby, small hands leaned in to grab the box, but just before making contact, there was a voice.

“Put down the box, dearie.”

It was a defeated voice. A voice which had tiredly repeated similar phrases a hundred, a thousand times: “Don’t do that, sweety.” “Honey, leave your sister alone.” “No, you can’t do that.” I was grateful for that voice, and I thought that I had barely escaped from a very short lifetime of being gnawed by the two front teeth of a child who could barely run in a straight line without toppling over. The worst fear of any pencil is probably being owned by a pesky little human being. Pencils owned by them will never survive long—perhaps two months on average. Its final fate will be in some wastebasket or between a wall and a shelf full of large, thin books with at most ten words per page, with a sticky booger stuck on its body.

However, a thumb, soon followed by an index finger, squirreled its way into the opening of the case. I could see remnants of dry, cracked Play-Doh and paint under the nails. If I had the ability to move, I would have toppled over in disgust, putting as much distance between myself and those fingers. 

Alas, my fate was sealed. The child reached inside my box, and fished out me, puncturing my eraser with sharp nails caked in dirt. I was exposed to the cool air of the store for a brief moment, then was quickly shoved into a jacket pocket, where I learned what lint felt like for the first time.

And so here I am, and I know that I'll be reminded of this day on every start-of-career day for the rest of my life.