Yellow

• Lillian Tricker, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

The floorboards groan beneath my feet, the noise nothing but trivial to the outside ruckus of my family loading the cars yet, I pause. My breath sticking to my throat. My eyes flicker around what used to be my bedroom. How strange, I observe. The evening sun streams into the room through the small window in the far corner. I will my feet towards it, memories fogging my sight and I stumble.

The wind woke me from my slumber, bellowing into my room and sending chills scurrying up my arms. Groggily, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and left the comfort of my duvet. The cold embraces me like a blanket of ice and raises the hairs on my arms.
The floorboards groan and I reach out, eyes blinking awake.
A shadow of a man stood in the driveway. Was that-no!
I slid the window close with a snap, the lock clicking into place and dive back into the comfort of my duvet shivering.

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
Trailing my fingers along the yellow walls, I still. The memories at my fingertips flew into my mind’s eye.

A cold touch on my shoulder forces my gaze up to a slender figure above me, my features reflected in her face.
“Honey, don’t you think its time we started anew? This house…” her words felt hollow. Empty.
My mother gazes out the window and I turn, glancing out too. Our eyes were so alike but saw different things.
She didn’t believe me when I told her. I wasn’t even sure I believed myself anymore either.

The world rushes back into my sight and I try to swallow down the stiffness in my throat. My eyes flickering over my room; a yellow tomb of secrets. Clenching my hands tight I take a step forward towards the window. The yellow paint curls upwards from the wall and some pieces litter the floor of the window sill.

“Your father has died,” the man in blue uniform held sorrow in his smile.
No. I saw him! He stood outside my window! I ached to scream but the words didn’t take flight.

I shook the thoughts out of my head. The yellow walls becoming too bright, too blurry, leaving wet memories dripping down my face. The evening air bellows into the room and brushes through my hair in a calming touch.
I glance down at the figures packing boxes into the cars. No one glances up at the house, but I wonder, what would they see if they looked through the window?
For the last time, I lock the window with a click.