All She Saw Was Yellow
1/1
I remember, when I was five I decided that my favourite colour was yellow. At first, I didn’t know why I had chosen yellow as my favourite colour. But now I realize, I didn’t choose the colour. The colour chose me. For my entire life, I’ve loved the colour yellow. I remember I would lay on our lawn when I was eight, and just stare up at the sun for hours on end because the sun reminded me of yellow, I didn’t care if staring at the sun would end up harming my eyes eventually. I remember, when I was sixteen I would have lemon with everything I ate, because lemons were yellow. It’s funny really, that I’m remembering all these things now, even though I’m laying on what could very well be my deathbed if my surgery doesn’t have good results.
“Ms. Newton, it’s time for me to prep you for surgery,” a nurse announces as she walks into my room.
The nurse went over to my bedside table, looking at all my prescription drugs for some reason. I reach over to where her hands are, and I quietly ask, “May I please tell you a story of my past? No one knows about, and I’d rather not go into surgery knowing that I may die- especially since no one knows my story. I need someone to know it, to be able to tell my family. You know?”
The nurse looks all over the room, avoiding my eyes. She awkwardly sat down on the chair beside my bed.
“Now, I know what you must be thinking, `How could this twenty-two year old possibly have a story about her past that’s bothering her, when she’s so young?` Infact, I know that’s what you’re thinking.” I chuckle at the thought of me reading her mind, and then suddenly stop laughing, remembering that this is a hospital, and people die in the hospital. I remember that the hospital is meant to be a place where things should be taken seriously, although laughing and having a good time- as long as it doesn’t result in someone being harmed is allowed.
“See, when I was fourteen I had my first kiss. It was with a girl- yes, a girl. An older man had saw us kissing, and actually had the nerve to come near us- yet not very close as if he were scared that if he came to close to us he would become homosexual, yelling things such as `Fags like you shouldn’t be allowed to live in a city like this!`, and other terrible homophobic slurs. I remember how Annie had looked at me after he stomped away. She had said, `Bee; that was my grandpa. My grandpa called me a fag.`” I pause to look at the nurse, seeing that she’s simply shaking her head- as if to say `go on`, so I continued.
“I remember how she was about to burst into tears. I comforted her until she calmed down. I remember her telling me how he would always say that he would love her forever, that nothing she did would ever upset him. She told me how she wished that he never saw us,” I take a deep breath and continue with my story, “I remember that night, I found a yellow permanent marker. That very same night, I snuck into her house and talked to her for hours on end. At one point- I don’t remember why, I drew a yellow heart on her hand with that permanent marker. She took that marker from my hand and got me to lie on my back. So I did. I remember her kissing me numerous times, and I remember that her hand slid up my shirt. I thought we were going to do something else… Something intimate. But no, that’s not what happened. She drew a yellow heart on my hip.. That night, after I snuck back out, she killed herself. And until I was eighteen I traced over that yellow heart perfectly. On my eighteenth birthday I got that yellow heart tattooed on my hip. Anyways… The point in me sharing this with you is that I feel bad, I feel like it’s my fault why she’s dead. Because I’m the one she kissed,” I finished my story.
The nurse shifted in her seat, without saying a word she stood up and got me ready for my surgery.
- -
When the anesthetic was pumping through my body, all I saw was yellow, not blackness- yellow.
“Ms. Newton, it’s time for me to prep you for surgery,” a nurse announces as she walks into my room.
The nurse went over to my bedside table, looking at all my prescription drugs for some reason. I reach over to where her hands are, and I quietly ask, “May I please tell you a story of my past? No one knows about, and I’d rather not go into surgery knowing that I may die- especially since no one knows my story. I need someone to know it, to be able to tell my family. You know?”
The nurse looks all over the room, avoiding my eyes. She awkwardly sat down on the chair beside my bed.
“Now, I know what you must be thinking, `How could this twenty-two year old possibly have a story about her past that’s bothering her, when she’s so young?` Infact, I know that’s what you’re thinking.” I chuckle at the thought of me reading her mind, and then suddenly stop laughing, remembering that this is a hospital, and people die in the hospital. I remember that the hospital is meant to be a place where things should be taken seriously, although laughing and having a good time- as long as it doesn’t result in someone being harmed is allowed.
“See, when I was fourteen I had my first kiss. It was with a girl- yes, a girl. An older man had saw us kissing, and actually had the nerve to come near us- yet not very close as if he were scared that if he came to close to us he would become homosexual, yelling things such as `Fags like you shouldn’t be allowed to live in a city like this!`, and other terrible homophobic slurs. I remember how Annie had looked at me after he stomped away. She had said, `Bee; that was my grandpa. My grandpa called me a fag.`” I pause to look at the nurse, seeing that she’s simply shaking her head- as if to say `go on`, so I continued.
“I remember how she was about to burst into tears. I comforted her until she calmed down. I remember her telling me how he would always say that he would love her forever, that nothing she did would ever upset him. She told me how she wished that he never saw us,” I take a deep breath and continue with my story, “I remember that night, I found a yellow permanent marker. That very same night, I snuck into her house and talked to her for hours on end. At one point- I don’t remember why, I drew a yellow heart on her hand with that permanent marker. She took that marker from my hand and got me to lie on my back. So I did. I remember her kissing me numerous times, and I remember that her hand slid up my shirt. I thought we were going to do something else… Something intimate. But no, that’s not what happened. She drew a yellow heart on my hip.. That night, after I snuck back out, she killed herself. And until I was eighteen I traced over that yellow heart perfectly. On my eighteenth birthday I got that yellow heart tattooed on my hip. Anyways… The point in me sharing this with you is that I feel bad, I feel like it’s my fault why she’s dead. Because I’m the one she kissed,” I finished my story.
The nurse shifted in her seat, without saying a word she stood up and got me ready for my surgery.
- -
When the anesthetic was pumping through my body, all I saw was yellow, not blackness- yellow.