I ran.
I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I ran. Well, it was more of a stumbling walk really but that doesn't work as well. I couldn't face the Major or Carson so I stumbled ungracefully out of the infirmary like the coward I am... that just doesn't have the same ring as 'I ran'.
I left the infirmary, stopped by my room to grab some clothes – the last thing I want is to moon someone... and then I ran as far as I could. I ran blindly, taking a transporter and pressing a button randomly, thinking anywhere but here.
My head hurts again. Yet at the same time it doesn't. I know, I know, I'm not making much sense. Maybe there is something wrong with me? Carson said something about my head before I, ah, 'left'. I thought it was my shoulder that I hurt? That hurts like hell too. I'm starting to think there is something wrong with me, because I know normally that I would be in the infirmary by now, whining to Carson about my shoulder. I just want to get away from everyone though.
To find the perfect place. I'm in a section of Atlantis I'm sure hasn't been explored yet. I pass closed doors, open doors, rooms with no doors. I pass blue rooms, silver rooms... and a yellow room, before finding a small room. Nice and quiet. Giving me chance to stop and catch my breath. To reach up to the side of my head and touch it gently, before pulling my hand back and looking at the blood on it. My blood. At least it isn't yellow.
I don't like the colour yellow. Lemons are yellow. Bees are yellow [okay, they are yellow and black]. Those smiley face stickers teachers stick on your work when you've done a good job are yellow. That cold lumpy stuff my mother insisted was custard was yellow. The smiley sun you're supposed to draw on those childish pictures to show how normal you are, they are supposed to be yellow. But why would the sun have a smile? The yellow crayon was always getting broken in the pack. The kids would fight over it, wanting to use it first and it would snap. And I would watch it all silently and think about the scent of lemons.
It's ironic, but when I was a child, I liked the smell of lemons. My mother used some lemon scented washing up liquid. She used to over do it though, and the sink would overflow with bubbles, the scent of lemon drifting around the room. I wanted to taste lemon's but my mother wouldn't let me. She never told me why and I couldn't understand why something that smelt so nice wouldn't taste nice. It turned out they had discovered my allergy to lemons when I was a few months old but for some reason decided I wouldn't understand.
When I was seven I nearly died because my parents thought I wouldn't understand. I was at a friends – yes, I did have some friends when I was kid – when his mum made some lemonade for us, made from real lemons. Did I mention my oh so perfect parents hadn't told anyone I was allergic to lemon? They didn't want anyone to know that there was something abnormal with me. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I had to go to hospital. It wasn't pleasant. I can't remember much but what I do... it wasn't pleasant.
When I was younger, I was fascinated by bees. The first time one stung me I cried. And I killed the bee that did it. I was a child. The second time... the second time it had landed on a yellow flower. That should have set alarm bells ringing in my head. Yellow and yellow together could only mean bad. You know, you never have an allergic reaction to something that you've never experienced before. So when that bee stung me I didn't think anything of it. Even when I started to get light headed and dizzy... if my sister hadn't have found me when she did I would have died... the first thing I did when I got out of hospital that time was crush the yellow flower the bee had been sitting on. I wanted to take my anger out on something and that flower couldn't fight back.
Here's the funny thing. One of my most favourite things in the world is light. I mean that both physically and metaphorically. I like light. Light banishing darkness. The light you get when the last piece falls into place. The light you get when you're eleven years old and you've been locked in a wardrobe for a couple of hours before someone finds you and opens the door.
Light is yellow too.
And now I know something is seriously wrong with me. Because I do not think about things like this normally and I certainly don't think about my hurt. I've buried it deep down and I don't want it uncovered. A psychiatrist might say that's the reason I'm so nasty to everyone. That maybe I'm scared about letting people in behind my walls.
Well, duh. But that's not the only reason though. I'm a bastard because my dad was a bastard. I'm a bastard because I've been hurt too many times not to be. I'm a bastard... because I am me.
'm getting sleepy now. Is that a good thing? Maybe I should head back to Carson, the infirmary... the Major.
Only now I realise I don't know how to get back... and maybe I don't want to go back. I can't handle rejection again, I'm too much of a coward. I'll just sit down for a few minutes, until I stop feeling so light headed. Just sit down and lean against the cool wall of this random room I found myself in. Sit down and ignore the wet trickle of blood and the headache that's coming back. Sit down and think of the scent of lemons...
Funny... I swear I can actually smell lemons...
Go Back: ... And You're Out
Go Forward: Forty-Two
