Amy O’Hair
On the door to my study I have a small gargoyle, a forlorn figure, his eyes a sink of pain, his legs curled up under him, his head buried under hands that pull at his hair. He is Envy.
Though I could not see him, he was with me when, at age five, I stood glaring at another little girl, a stranger to me, who had more lovely hair, a prettier dress, a cuter face. The vicious spite I felt then surprised me so that the moment has never lost vividness. He was with me this morning, whisperi...
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