Paint it yellow- Chapter 4

Fourth chapter of Paint it Yellow, review please! :)

Chapter 4

I don’t think about anything except running. I don’t think about why I’m doing it, where I’m going or what I’m going to do next. I just run.

Past blocks of houses and neatly mown lawns, past shops and school, through parks and bush I run. 

There’s no looking back, no stopping and no thinking. 

I run and run until I can no longer lift up my leg, bend it and put it down in front of me to create a running motion. When that happens I lie down on the side of the road and sleep...

Colours swirl all around me; blues, reds, oranges, pinks and purples all rush about in a vibrant dance. But no yellows. No bright dazzling yellows to fulfil the astonishing routine which was flashing before my eyes. The colours started to turn into dark brooding clouds, filled with anger and hatred. 

I wake up sweating and shivering. I stand up trying to shake the dream off, my back sore from lying on the ground.  I look around trying to make sense of where I am and why I’m here. I see the sun rising over the trees, a beautiful pink streak across the sky. 

My stomach grumbles, hungry for food. I sigh, not sure what to do. After raking my brain around I decide to head off in search for food. I’m not sure where I am, somewhere near what appears to be a car yard, so I don’t know where I’m heading.

I walk for a while and watch the sun appear fully over the horizon. My stomach grumbles, my legs and back hurt yet I’m happy. I’m content with the world, for once I don’t want to scream or shout at everybody, I didn’t want to thrash about in my bed or punch a wall in anger. No, I’m truly content. 

I round a corner and see a small cafe. I rush to it and swing open the door; everybody turns around and stares at me. At first I’m confused as to why but then I look down and realise that being covered head to toe in dirt is probably not normal. I am a complete mess, I have dirt all over my hands and face, my hair is like a birds nest full of sticks and twigs and I’m sure that I stink.

I straighten my shoulders and walk proudly over to an empty table, smiling at all the people who are looking at me with distaste.

“Would you like anything, love?” A waitress comes over to me as I sink into the chair.

“Ummm, yes” I start before realising that I don’t have any money. “No thanks I’m fine.”

The waitress gives me a sickly sweet smile and turns her attention to two business men.

I bash my head against the table, completely stuck on what to do. I start to realise that leaving like I did wasn’t a good idea and maybe I should go back. But if I went back I’d have to explain to my mum why, I would have to face her scornful looks following me around the house like a bad smell, would have to hear her shouting at me, telling me I’m no good. I couldn’t take it, not one single bit...

As I wonder about all these things I start to panic, my breathing is speeding up, why is it getting harder?  

I rush to the bathroom, swinging open the door and make my way to the closest cubicle. Kneeling over the toilet bowl I have another asthma attack. The pink and blue tiles of the bathroom blur in front of my eyes and that sickly lemony smell fills my nostrils making me coil in disgust.

I try to remember my breathing pattern but no matter how hard I will it to come I just can’t seem to relax into that steady pattern that I’ve started feeling accustomed to. 

In, out, in, out. 

Faster, coarser, scarier. 

My lungs can’t get the air in, I become much tenser. I need help. 

Think, Wattle think, what did dad always say when this happened. Remember, please.  

I rack my brain trying to remember what my dad said all those years ago when he would hold me and help me when I got these attacks. Somehow he always managed to coax me back into relaxation and my breathing would go back to normal. I know that there is very little chance of that happening now but maybe, just maybe if I can bring that memory of dad back then I may be able to get my breathing somewhat sorted. 

Visions blur in front of me, the dim bathroom light flickering away, the washed out pink colour of the cubicle walls, the white, plastic toilet bowl. 
 

My head swirls, I close my eyes and breathe, just breath. I picture my dad, splattered in paint and smiling, that smile that always make me smile. It’s a smile that I fell asleep watching, that I danced with, that made me feel all warm and safe. A smile that tells me that everything will be alright, that there is nothing to worry about. 

A smile creeps onto my lips with sweet memory...