If hell were A colour it would Be Beige

8/14/16

She isn’t happy here.

She’s like a cardinal (a male cardinal because those are the ones with the red feathers) and this beige apartment is her cage. I used to write her poetry that I’d make into songs. She used to be into that. But if I compared her to a male cardinal now, she’d probably tell me to piss off.

She’s sitting on the beige carpet, leaning against the beige wall, eyes shut. Blue shorts riding up her thighs, yellow shirt wrinkled and falling off her shoulder, mop of curly hair over her face. I stand in the kitchen and just look at her. Then I look at my left hand at see the thing that shackles us together.

She isn’t happy here, but she doesn’t say it. If she could, she’d break out, hop in her car and drive so far and so fast that I’d never see her again. I don’t even think she’d miss me. I know she wouldn’t miss this place.

“So,” I say, taking a step towards her, “so I was thinking that I could buy some paint and we could maybe paint the living room this weekend.”

Her head lolls to the side and she lets out a long sigh. She looks up at me with her pretty green eyes and says, “We don’t even have any furniture. We don’t even have a bed.”

I scratch the back of my neck and look around at the empty room. “Well, yeah,” I say and clear my throat. “Michael said he can get us a used mattress for cheap.”

She buries her head in her knees. “Okay.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask, still only a foot into the living room. “I can make you--”

“I don’t want another pb&j,” she says, softly. She stands up and rubs her distended stomach. It should be beautiful, probably. “I’m tired, I’m going to take a nap.”

“Okay,” I say.

She disappears into the hallway and I hear the bedroom door shut.

I make a phone call to Michael, and he says he could get us a used mattress for twenty bucks. I look at my cheque and frown. I can barely cover rent and utilities on what I’m making, nevermind food and all of Addison’s doctor’s appointments. I tell him I’ll think about it.

I walk down the beige, dimly lit hall. It only has two doors: bathroom and bedroom. I lean against the bedroom door and hear sniffling on the other side.

I imagine going in and crawling into Addie’s sleeping bag and holding her close until we fell asleep, like we used to. But I know she’s crying and she doesn’t want me to touch her. She can barely look at me anymore.

She misses her parents and her brother and school and everything, I know.

I sit outside the door and stay quiet.

“I still love you,” I say, loud enough that the ants in the kitchen could hear.

The sniffling stops and this beige prison is quiet.