When she woke up, she realized she had been taken care of by two yellow people the whole time she was ill. She merely touched her face, as she felt the need to feel her skin after so many nights. Those nights. Yes, those nights that seemed endless because of all the sadistic pleasures that surrounded the congested brothel rooms. Now she remembers. Those nights. Yes, those nights when she was kissed as if her lips were plastic, her tongue was gum, her hands were pleasure inducing machines, her “v” shaped, opened legs. Those were the nights when she got caught up in all the hedonistic concept of it all, that she forgot how to suffer in a normal way; she flagellated herself by doing everything with everyone. Everyone had scarfed her inners, had brutalized her lips and along with her dreams of being a Mrs. one day. One day. The bold, ugly, smart boy was a journalist now, he had officially transformed from green to grey. He was never yellow like her, so they were never meant to be together. At least, that’s what the dying willow told her. The tree told her, so what was there to do but forget about the boy’s eyes, about his glasses, about his color? He had ugly glasses. He was smart but he had ugly glasses, so it didn’t matter now. He had become just a reminiscent of the old days when she cried alone in her orange bed. Her bed. The bed wasn’t orange anymore. It was white; or maybe she was color blind, so this was for the best.
The yellow woman held the girl’s hand in her hand and all the yellow energy diffused into the girl. The woman’s eyes were worm, they gave her warmth. Warmth. So it was good, she could begin to search for those nights. Those nights where the cigarettes were two for one and the men were ten for nothing. The men. Yes those men, those boys that knew what to do with her, they knew how to make her feel more empty than ever. Warmth. That was all that she was feeling now. The yellow woman wouldn’t let her go into those nights again. She would suffer too much, so would have to stay still and have some bed rest, some yellow tea and some cold strawberries for her wound. She could stay with the yellow people for the rest of her life and she would never suffer again.
And so, the girl tried to stay in the yellow house for a little while, but in a brief moment she realized that that was not the place she was going to stay for the rest of her life. Yes, she liked being taken care of, yes she liked her beautiful room and her beautiful clothes, but it wasn’t enough to keep her there, in the safe place. Nevertheless, she remained in that house.
The mornings were so calm, now that she was no longer a tormented by her puberty crisis. The nights were clear and the moon was in its place. So, was there something wrong? Should she have ran away before she would make her new yellow parents suffer? No answer came, until one night when the wind was chilly and the skies were dark blue.



This girl. She is looking for her thoughts as she tries to comprehend the world around her, it would behoove her to stay inside her cocoon. Stay there. Stay where she is safe and no other grey boy would hurt her.
This girl. Yes, this girl to whom life has given the opportunity to grow like a radiant ray, just out of the sun. She is brilliant and she shines from across any room in any place, in the yellow world. She is trying to find her soul and her broken doll. She lost her shoes, so she has to walk in snickers. She doesn’t care about the night, because she is walking in her snickers.
So, as she was walking fast to try and catch her lost hours, her lost time, she stumbled into an old friend. This friend was like no other friend she has had before. This friend was a powerful almost woman, she knew what to do. She knew what to say to the yellow girl. She told the yellow girl that she could help her find her lost hours, her lost time.
The girl. The yellow girl that ran in the woods to find her way home, she was trying to understand why
she had been taken by her friend in the old cabin again. She never asked for help, she was the one who ran
off to see if she could have lived by herself, by her own rules. She was weak; she had no power when it
came to this mephistophelian plan that her friend had had for her. The almost woman craved for attention
and the only way she could attract some dull boys was if she would have a friend by her side- the yellow
girl was perfect. She was able to make every man happy. She could make her big lips red again and paint
her eye-lids with black poison for the testosterone-infused boys that were coming to see them this night.
This night. This night, in particular, was a peculiar night because the moon was not so bright and
November was just at its first days. The boys were wearing too much cologne and the wine was too sweet
for the yellow girl. She saw that boy again, the almost man. She was brought here without her will but it
would have been incongruous to leave now that they were all drinking from the same cups. She had no
intention to play any games, nevertheless this was a wicked evening; the air was polluted with a
hypnotizing smell that invaded their lungs and shadowed their minds. Everything was permitted this
particular night.
As the music filled their drunken ears, they started dancing like waves, cluttering one into another. The
room was big enough but they had nowhere else to go so they had to touch. The yellow girl wasn’t yellow
anymore, she turned into red. She had red lips and a red tongue with which she had been tasting the beauty
of life in its bare essence since the day she stepped into the yellow world. The almost man caressed the
girl and made her red. Red. Red like a poppy, red like a chilly, red like the blood that was flowing in his
strong, thick veins as he hugged this vulnerable girl in his arms. She didn’t know his color, she thought he
had no color until she touched his moist lips and felt the need to find out if he had a color at all. Was he
just a beautiful mirage? Was he just the shadow of the terrible things that would come into this
unfortunate girl’s future?