The Observation Room

Yellow

Vivian Lester

7th January 1994

She died of a heart attack at age 16 and a half, quite a strange case might I add. Nonetheless the leaves still fell that autumn and the wind still blistered scalps like an unknown disease in the winter. The following summer children played in the sodden depths of sand that covered her lonesome bones, with little thought of the serenity of the case at their feet. Brightly coloured jelly shoes battered the granulated stones; prominent laughter created an eerie sense of unimportance of her constitutional self.

A solemn day it was in late May, ironic really, but it matched the hard-headed feelings of my father, who stood gazing at the pixelated screen of the TV and wondered at its poor satellite connection. My mum, not long back from work, was pacing in the kitchen, oblivious to my presence. I trudged up the stairs, pen in hand, almost gasping for air as I conquered the last step and approached my room on the third floor landing. I opened the door with two hard pushes, being careful not to lift it from its hinges as I had done a few weeks back out of anger. I sat. And wondered. And was still. I looked down at my hand, how my knuckles had become red and inflamed, and watched the ink spill from the pen I had a tight grasp on. The ink was venom, trekking down my leg and staining every inch it touched, it was warm unlike me. You see, I'm cold inside, like I have no conscience and no guide. I'm a lone runner, a lone explorer and no one sees this place like I do.

The plates lay flat on the counter, the bowls gave me an upturned stern look, the cutlery lying dead in the draw. Everyone has a different perception of the world, just mine seems to be another kind of different and not similar to anyone else's different kind of view. Outside the clouds are white, there's nothing painted on them. I'm looking - well rather waiting - for inspiration, motivation, or something that's going to force me to stop and change direction. Because it seems the only direction i'm going in is down, and i'm not too sure it's going to end well. I spend most of my days coasting, wavering on in the hope of something coming along and sweeping me off to somewhere new and undiscovered; I'm just dreaming really because my reality is completely different, I guess i'm just absorbed in a need for excitement that this world can't offer.