Bright. Sunday morning, and that was all I could think of. Bright. Very, very bright. And yellow. That was my second thought. That is my regular Sunday-Morning-Routine. I saw that it was bright – my eyelids were still closed, but I could see the sunlight through them. And I knew that it was yellow. I opened my eyes to a squint: yellow walls, yellow bed sheets, yellow jacket hanging on my yellow clothes rack, pink shirt – wait. Pink?
I opened my eyes wide. Yes, that was definitely pink. I forced myself out of bed, stretched and sighed. Mum. Pink. I never liked pink. Not that I liked yellow, but over the last sixteen years I’d gotten so used to it, I hardly realized it wasn’t white. But pink. I picked up the shirt and put it in the cupboard. Then I made my way down the stairs, to be greeted by –miaow.
Jeeno. The cat. Picking him up, I marched over to the kitchen table where Mum was reading. I put Jeeno on my chair and paused for a moment to watch him jump down and sprawl himself under it. Then I turned to Mum.
“Thanks, Mum. I love it,” I said, kissing her cheek. Pink. Mum replied with a “Mm-hmm,” so I sat down and began to eat, with the strangest fantasies of pink rooms and yellow shirts circling in my mind. Pink. But I couldn’t tell her that. Even if she wouldn’t mind, I just couldn’t do something like that. It was, after all, a gift. And it’s the thought that counts, that’s what she would always say when I “wanted” to give her something, but never got to it.
“Danny?”
Confused, I looked up. I’d forgotten Mum was there. Then I noticed that she was studying me carefully. I fixed a questioning look on my face and looked back at her. “Is something bothering you?”
Is something bothering you? Bothering? Me? It took me a moment to realise that something was bothering me. That girl in school. I’d been watching her recently, and there was something wrong about her. She was absolutely gorgeous, but yet, there was something that warned everyone else to stay away from her. It was like a warning sign, telling people that she was fragile – one of those “handle with care” stamps you see on boxes of glass. Yes, that was bothering me. She was too breakable to be left by herself. “No, mum. I’m just..”
Shez. That was her name.
I stood up and wandered back upstairs to the bathroom, where I washed my face and then stared at it. I really did look spaced out. I had bags under my eyes from late nights and school stress. My eyes themselves, were slightly red. My hair was too short – it made my face look round. But the only thing Mum ever asks me to do is cut it, so I do. My lip was slightly swollen from when I bit it at dinner. I sighed.
