Maybe tomorrow will be yellow

Sara got there in a panic, fist pounding dully on the paint-chipped steel door. The apartment numbers squeaked and turned under the force of her shaking fist; she barely noticed 66 had become 69 and stored away the perverted laughter. No one was answering. Breathing fast, she kept hitting, alternating between bare knuckles and flat palm until both flushed crimson. Tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks and into the corners of her pursed lips. Still no answer, she hiccupped to force the cold fear back down her throat where it belonged.

Out of desperation, Sara tried turning the knob. It turned. She pushed and caught the chain lock. She pulled the door back almost shut, then slammed her full body weight into it. The chain ripped off the frame and Sara tumbled unsteadily into the hallway. She shivered. The AC was on full cold blowing frigid air from the vents directly on her still dripping wet hair. Preoccupied, she set the half-closed umbrella and her handbag in the cheap, plastic fern by the coat rack. She tried to collect her thoughts, think clearly, tried to figure out what to do next. She had gotten in; now she had to find her.

Sara called her friend’s name, meaning to yell but barely forcing a whisper. Afraid of what she’d find, she tiptoed down the hall and into the unlit living room. She cursed herself as she tripped over a pair of paint-stained Chucks and almost knocked over an expensive-looking glass lamp. She quickly steadied it and flicked the switch. With a long sigh, she realized her friend wasn’t here and went on to search the next room. Slightly braver with the growing urgency, Sara took full steps and softly called her name again.

No answer.

She paused at the closed bedroom door, studying the Mardis Gras beads hot glued together into a frowning tragedy mask. Her hand was trembling again as she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal and twisted. Slowly, she stepped one foot, then the other, over the threshold. She whispered the name, terrified of what she wouldn’t hear. Forcing her jellied legs to move, she hobbled to check the other side of the bed. She dropped, already exhausted, to the floor and lifted the white lace dust ruffle to peek under the unmade bed. Pushing up on hands and knees, she crawled over the sleep-wrinkled sheets and into the bathroom. There was no sign her friend had ever lived there. She pulled back the shower curtain, half expecting the girl to jump out laughing and wielding a plastic butcher’s knife. She could hear the “jiff jiff jiff jiff, pop pop pop pop” Halloween music in her head and anticipated the relieved giggles as she was finally let in on the elaborate prank.

Her friend wasn’t laying in wait for the perfect moment to make Sara scream.
Sara turned around and faced herself. She felt the panic rising again, tickling the back of her tonsils, threatening to escape in a long, agonizing scream.

“Calm down,” she told herself, “Breathe. Just breathe and think and solve this. You can solve this. You solve everything else.”

She twisted the left side faucet and let the icy water flow through her spread fingers. She choked down a smile at the reversed plumbing; everything was backwards here. Forming hands into cups, she splashed water onto her eyes and cheeks and let it drip down into the clamshell sink. With each dousing, she thought a little clearer, baptizing herself in the dirty city water pumping through the pipes. Sara blindly turned to the side and dried her face on the hand towel hanging from the hook. When she opened her eyes, she noticed it was yellow. She hated yellow; it was too bright and sunny for this dark life. No one is yellow all the time unless they’re on Prozac. Life just isn’t that shiny all day, every day without some serious pharmaceutical intervention. She ran just dry fingertips in circles along her temples, staring at the reflection, trying to find the answer.

Sara’s bloodshot eyes grew wide as she remembered the kitchen light had been on when she broke down the door. She turned and ran out and down the hall, slipping on a random polka dot scarf lying on the tile. With a groan, she lifted herself up and knew she’d feel those bruises tomorrow once the adrenaline subsided.

Peering around the half-open kitchen door, Sara saw her.

Her head was in the oven, feet dangling out like a macabre Wicked Witch crushed under Dorothy’s murderous intentions. Pain flooding from her eyes, Sara inched over and tentatively touched her friend’s cold arm. She pulled back with a gasp; then, finding courage, grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her friend close to her chest. Sara stroked the tangled blonde hair out of dull, unseeing eyes and wondered how someone so lifeless could still be so stunningly beautiful.

She shouldn’t look this disheveled, even after all this.

Sara gently laid her friend’s head and shoulders against the hard tile, slowly rose and walked back to her forgotten purse. She dug for a while, producing a tiny comb and a few Kleenex from the dark recesses where the gnomes hid their looted treasure. Shoulders slumped, she shuffled back to the sleeping beauty and knelt beside her unmoving body. Lifting the knotted hair into her lap, Sara numbly combed all the tangles until the strands ran silky smooth in her palms. Salty droplets splashed against unfeeling cheeks. Sara wiped the stains away with the tissues, lovingly stroking the chiseled features with her fingertips. Grunting, Sara picked her up, slowly carried her back to the bedroom, and carefully laid her friend down. She propped her up and smoothed pristine hair out of vacant eyes. One more time, she traced the perfect cheek with trembling fingertips before closing the glass door and locking her friend back in the display case where she belonged.

Panic easing, Sara collapsed with muddy shoes into her unmade bed and buried herself under the heavy quilt. Smothering her face in the fluffy down pillow, she screamed out the last of her frustration then smiled her tilted smile. It was going to be blue today. But maybe tomorrow would be yellow.