Yellow

Yellow’s illegal and she’s going to wear it. Her hand traces the outline of the scarf as its yellow hue glints under the lamp. Illegal - yellow’s a seep under your skin, make people froth at the mouth kind of illegal - socially illegal. But she wants to breathe in yellow. To take in the current of the sweet lemon tart. Taste its jagged edges under her tongue. Feel her nerves begin to salivate. She wants to die in yellow. She doesn’t want to die in yellow because those that wear yellow tell her she must. She doesn’t want to die in yellow because those that despise yellow tell her she must not. She wants to die in yellow because she believes it to be right. But dying in something means having to start in something. So that’s where she stands, tracing the outline of the illegal, its yellow hue glinting under the gaze of the lamp – she pauses, hands still, then retreats.

She thinks of him. He found her when the earth stood still, at the crossroad between the eastern and western kingdom, holding the soil of two forgotten worlds. He found her when the west no longer sung of its warmth and the east sung only of it. Now, he disdains yellow. She feels her throat tighten, she hesitates, she swallows it.

Moving towards her dresser, she stretches her arm towards the glinting object. A pale bone yellow ring. She’ll start with this. Sliding it onto her finger, she lets out the breath she’s been gripping on to. It fits. Moving around the room she begins to collect the items she’s been safe-keeping – a pair of trousers, a ribbed-sweater and the scarf.

Clutching them close, she opens the door and walks towards the empty room. The hallways walls are pale. Tears spread out like veins. The walls whisper to each other.

Before. Before. Before.

Feeling them about to close in on her. She runs to open the door to her right. Thudding, heart or feet. The same. Breathing rapid. Rushes in. Quickly. Closes. Door.

She exhales – CO2 exchanges for oxygen as her eyes take in the spacious and empty room around her. The room has light wooden flooring and pale walls that don’t whisper. The curtains cover the light just enough that no-one can see inside.

She can see outside.

The corner of her mouth lifts as her eyes traces the space. She lands on the middle of the room where an easel stands, holding up a large pale canvas, paints and brushes beside it.

She moves forward and lays in a straight row to the right of the easel, the pair of trousers, the ribbed-sweater and the scarf. The ring is still on her finger. Moving towards the canvas, she takes out the paints.

There’s no yellow.

She puts the paints on the palette and begins mixing. Her hands moving in a deliberate motion. They aren’t allowed to paint…the walls with colours. Everything has to look and follow the rules. Only whites, pales, cools and greys are accepted. No warmth. Colours close to yellow are frowned upon. Yellow is despised. She continues mixing.

Hands on canvas she starts thinking of the stories he used to tell her, where the streets used to be painted in yellow and lemon zest used to fall from the sky - when the east and west used to sing in honey. Until the whispers. Whispers started seeping into people’s homes, mixed in with the water of the city and yellow became only a breath on the tongue. He would say, "I saw what it did, I saw what it did, I saw what it did". He no longer tells stories.

She continues to paint in white, hands dancing on canvas. The sun shines through the curtains illuminating the room, warmth touching both the white of the painting and her face. She smiles. The white paint is glowing golden. They may have tried to get rid of yellow, but they can never get rid of the sun. Light always has a way of shining through.

***

Later in the evening, she heads outside, tightly wrapping her coat around herself as a gentle breeze travels in the air. Her pale-yellow ring glitters under the skies light.

Her white paint’s running out, so she needs to get a new one.

She walks - all around her are streets of cool greys, blues, greens, whites and pales. A myriad. No yellows. She’s floating through the bones of the city. Her feet bring her to the shop. She stands. She looks. She pushes the door open. It’s done.

“Welcome”, the person at the counter greets warmly.

She nods her head in response and smiles. She was raised here and has been coming to the shop for years so the person knows her.

Watches her.

She heads towards the paints, her ringed hand reaching for the colour. She floats to the counter. On the bone white desk, she puts the bone white paint with her pale bone-yellow ringed hand. The cashier hasn’t noticed.

Smiling the cashier says,

“Nice to see ya. Will that be all?”

“Yes” she smiles. Back straight. Perfect posture.

The price blurs into existence on the register. She reaches out, beginning the process of monetary exchange – the cashier notices.

Face shriveling up, anger flashes in the individuals’ eyes.

There’s a pause.

“Are you one of them” the person tersely bites out.

She lifts her chin, standing tall.

“I am one of me”

She holds the stare.

The tear of the wall lightly shrieks in the back. The paintings swirl into each other.

“My paints” she nods towards the cashier.

Slowly conceding, the individual passes her the bag.

She leaves the store. A closed is put on the door.

She walks back to her place.

***

She’s in the room later, painting on the canvas. Looking outside she sees two kids. They’re both wearing all white and have on coloured capes, playing with fighter bull toys. Laughing. Happy. Young bulls, trained to attack anyone that holds up a specific-coloured cloth.

She walks towards the yellow scarf. She holds it up. The scarf billows in the wind, trying to fly to the outside world. She is almost tempted to let the scarf fly. Instead, she stands and wonders when young fighter bulls go from being trained to attack to willingly charging themselves.

His words ring - I saw what it did, I saw what it did, I saw what it did.

The scarf continues to billow in the wind, its yellow glinting under the sun’s light.

She heads towards the canvas and continues to paint.

***

She has an appointment today. She’s wearing her ribbed-sweater, a less pale yellow than the ring. She’s in the room with the canvas and look at all the yellow items, in a perfect line. All connected - each piece is more yellow than the next. Calm winds swirl around her as she sees yellow – pieces of her connection. She was making a connection through yellow. A connection.

She’s never met this doctor before. She just knows that his office is in a town that especially hates yellow. They love white. All white.

She walks into the room. It’s all white. The doctor looks at her funny. He grips his clipboard tighter. His knuckles are white.

“What can I do for you” he blurts out.

“I need this fixed” she points to her nose.

“You need that fixed” he points to her nose.

She looks at him.

“Yes, I need this fixed”, she points again to her nose.

She starts to speak but he ignores her and begins to talk about the costs. When he’s done, he looks at her pointedly, as if to say, now you may speak.

She raises her chin. She knows he knows that she knows.

“The cost for this operation is covered”

Fire rages in his eyes. His body is contained.

He begins to spew out how horribly wrong the operation can go. It can’t be fixed once done. There are no guarantees. He will not be penalized.

She leaves.

See, that’s the thing about wearing yellow. People don’t really stop you from accessing things, they make it in such a way that you decide not to. Because, living with pain feels safer than dealing with the “accidents” made by those that are supposed to help. So, you don’t access help at all. You end up living with pain.

It begins to rain.

***

She meets him today. They drink tea. He knows she's been thinking about it. She hears the rain greeting the window.

"I'm going to do it" she finally speaks.

Her face, still. Her breathing, heavy.

His eyes, flash.

"You can't" he strains gently setting the cup down.

He whispers,

"I've seen what it's done, I've seen what it's done, I've seen what it's done."

She thinks of the rain, how it falls with such power. Never quiet in its thoughts. She wonders what it feels like. She touches the rain that slides down her face.

She aches. She smiles. They know.

They sip their tea.

***

Today’s the day. She walks through the hallways towards the room. The walls don’t feel as enclosing.

She enters and heads straight towards the canvas. The yellow sun shines on the painting making it glow, lighting the pale room. She can smell the lemons, practically taste the tartness on her tongue. The painting is almost done.

She begins, arms speaking to canvas until a few hours go by.

After some time, she rises and walks towards the last item in the row – the scarf.

Her face lifts into a grin. She’s going to wear it. Carefully reaching out, she takes the yellow scarf and beings to put it on.

This yellow is the brightest out of all of them. It beams like the sun.

The walls are now tinged warm, and the hallways are spacious.

She heads outside.

“TAKE IT OFF” someone yells from the other end. Some people nod in agreement.

Her smile drops.

She’s not surprised.

She just, she just-

She just continues heading towards the library.

She reaches inside and…is not met with complete disdain.

A person sits at the entrance and says, “love the yellow”.

She beams.

She heads towards the upper floor, where all kinds of books are and walks by someone who smiles warmly at her, she glows in yellow.

She finds a few books and sits down. In front of her is a bolded sign that says,

YOUR CHOICE.

The sun shines on the sign.

She spends the rest of the afternoon surrounded by books and people who understand that yellow was not about yellow. Yellow was about her choosing to wear yellow.

A few hours have gone by and she heads out of the library, humming to herself. There’s a crowd outside. She tries to move past them.

Somebody grabs her arm. Her humming stops.

It’s quiet.

There’s a hiss.

The person looks at her and grabs her scarf. She pushes back, they snarl. Her hearts pounding. The person wouldn’t do it, would they?

The person pulls.

Everyone starts chanting around her. The whispers of the city are back. You can see it in everyone’s eyes.

The person wouldn’t snatch it, rip it off and leave her bare in front of everyone here will they. She had done nothing and even doing something wouldn’t warrant this.

She tries to push away but the crowd just comes closer.

She’s done nothing to this person. She’s just yellow. Couldn’t the person feel her breathing. Feel the life that exists beyond the yellow.

Their eyes lock. She feels her heart in her throat. Something shifts. She sees herself in the reflection of the persons eyes. She wonders if they can see her too.

Their grip loosens slightly.

People roar.

The moment is lost.

Her yellow is ripped off.

She falls.

They all jeer.

The skies thunder.

Lightning strikes the ground.

Everyone runs.

The person looks at her one last time. Something in their eyes.

The rain falls down her face.

It doesn’t matter what’s in their eyes.

They run.

They all run.

No-one sees her. That’s the problem. When people see your yellow, all they see is your yellow. Yet, despite it all, she does not want to be anything but yellow. Yellow is her choice.

She hears thunder strike down.

She digs her hand into the dirt, pulling out the grass. Her hands get cut, red drips. She carries the grass and red.

Bones meeting the bones of the city. She walks empty. There’s something in her throat.

She stands outside her place.

He flies down, thundering. His voice, lightening.

"See what its done, see what its done, see what its done"

"No, you saw what people did. Not what it's done. What people did, people did, people did" she bellows.

She looks back, saw the rain thundering down his face.

He hugs her. They stand there for a while.

She whispers,

“You’ve, you’ve been a pretty good, you know” chin trembling as she stares out.

“Yeah” he breaths out, a small smile playing on his face.

She looks back at him, his scales, her skin, his face and hers, their differences and their similarities. The love.

“Thanks Dad”, she says looking towards him, tears in her eyes as a smile spreads across her face.

She walks in. The hallways are wide, but the wall is teared completely.

She makes it into the room. Water is rolling down the canvas. She’s shivering.

She takes the green of the earth and red of her hand, mixing it into the painting.

She takes a step back to stare at it. In her mind, she still hears them chanting, take it off.

She chokes.

She looks at the canvas again and turns it around for everyone who passes by to see.

She draws the windows open and walks out of the room.

***

The canvas stands near the windows. On it shows a girl still wearing her yellow. A girl breathing in yellow. A girl taking in the current of the sweet lemon tart. A girl tasting its jagged edges under her tongue. A girl feeling her nerves begin to salivate. But the painting isn’t just a girl wearing yellow. It’s a girl whose eyes glint with vast knowledge. A girl with stories.

The curtains billow in the wind and the sun comes out only to light the painting because, light always has a way of shining through.

The title reads, The Girl That Wears Yellow.