The different shades of yellow

The different shades of yellow

At the age of seven, Shruti was packing her lunch boxes, walking herself to her school, and sometimes even filling up her medical forms; with broken crayons.

By ten, she'd witnessed multiple physical fights, broken up some of them, and carried her mother to bed when she was too drunk.

During her early teenage years, she'd been alone hundreds of nights when her mother left their house in the evening to return in 3 or 4 days.

Now at seventeen, she'd not only witnessed those fights or broken them up but also been a part of them.

Staying in America had already conditioned her to think this was normal. She never realized she was a victim, and she was definitely better off without knowing.

Throughout the years, she'd witnessed many potential suitors take interest in her mother, curiosity always peaked in them by her beautiful hazel eyes. Suffice to say, they were not representative of her nature.

Yet, it was difficult for her to call her mother a "bad" person. At some level, she was probably dealing with overwhelming emotions of her own; it was just painful that they were vented out on Shruti.

Currently, slouching on her chair, Shruti tried to remember the happiest memory she had with her "family". Maybe even with her father. She rocked the chair back and forth, racking her brain for any, any one memory that could keep her sane; if not ecstatic.

Suddenly, her head was aching and her ears felt deafened.

"How STUPID-" as she was lifting her chair back to its original position, she saw a drawing on the wall behind it, signed by "Shrutee”.

It was a family of 3, the girl in the middle. Her smile was outlined with the color yellow, not the usual choice of red or pink. The parents were supposed to be hugging, but her art skills made them seem like spiders caught in a web spun together. (Which would describe her parents' relationship.) This family, however, was happy, at least by the looks of it. They were all wearing the most fashionable clothes Shruti could draw at the time and had the biggest smiles on their faces. The girl had two pigtails. Even with her lack of expensive products, Shruti had always been color coordinated, she noticed. If there was a color she didn't have, she tried to mix two of the colors to attain the one she wanted.

She sat there, admiring her artwork, knowing that at some point she must've been happy; when she noticed that their skin tones weren't brown. They weren't even yellow or black. They were white.

It wasn't her family.

Flashbacks came pouring out of her as she remembered Cecilla.

Twelve years ago, Cecilla and her family had shifted near her recently divorced mother.

Cecilla was five as well. A little younger. Her hair was always tied up in ponytails, and her hands were always sticky with the residue of chocolates or candies. Her eyes were shiny and big, and her ears were pointy and cute. Her smile, however, took the spotlight as it never left her. Even when she fell or was covered in mud, she was always giggling and prancing, much opposite to Shruti.

Shruti didn't even try to like her. She didn't want to. Sitting at the park alone on her swing, she'd seen multiple times Cecilla having a better time than she ever had. Her singular front tooth showed, (since the other had broken) as she slid down. Her blonde hair in two ponytails flailed around as she squealed when her parents caught her at the bottom of the slide.

Trying to do the monkey bar while her parents cheered her on from the side or even her ice cream being different colors on different days. It was almost always yellow, though.

Shruti remembered the slow buildup of how she’d managed to break Cecilla for who she was.

It had started with the day she’d stolen one of her toys. Her favorite one, to be more precise. It was a glorious purple stuffed horse, fluffy and covered with fur. It was cuddleable and soft. She had left it on the swing next to Shruti’s as she’d gone near the playpit. It was right near her swing, it was Cecilla who was stupid enough to leave it there, she wasn’t cruel for simply..taking it. After that, she hid it in her house, not that she had to. The only time her mother would notice would be if it managed to get in the way of one of her belongings.

Soon after, there were "accidental" pushes at the park, destruction of sand castles, throwing of toys, and even biting.

Now, she sat as unhappily as Shruti did, uninterested in any games and unwilling to display even a hint of a smile or acts of affection to her parents.

Shruti had been happy like that. Cecilla's love for yellow had now turned into an interest in blues and blacks. She'd been as interested in ice cream as in broccoli, and as uninterested in shirts as in skirts.

Good god, she’d managed to make a five year old depressed. Somehow, just like her mother had with her.

“The apple really doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” she thought, as she remained lying with the chair still upturned, in her yellow hoodie.