My mother often commented that my room was so bright from the midday sun reflecting off my neon green linen sheets that she needed sunglasses just to enter my bedroom. I knew it was not her preferred choice of color, but she never complained and she never wore sunglasses to dim the bright lime to a calm mint. The only time she ever frowned in the faint smaragdine glow was when dusk had settled and she sat on the edge of the bed, patted my knee then told me that she was engaged to a man that I had never met. Told me that we were moving. Told me that I had to leave my sea of green. 

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I can’t remember what those walls housed. I can’t remember which street or neighborhood or city on which those green walls stood. The only thing I remember is picking the paint color of the new house I was stationed, living with a stranger whose name was “Brain” in my phone. Mom already knew what color I wanted my walls, fingers fondling a faded emerald paint swatch. Before I realized what I was doing, the word “purple” came out of my small mouth so fast that I barely remember choosing the color at all. 

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The skin bunched between her eyebrows, nose scrunching with distaste, but said nothing as we proceeded to the check-out. 

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I should have chosen more carefully because I did not get to pick out anything else. I didn't get to choose the house. I didn't get to choose the school or state. Just like I did not get the chance to spend the last summer days at the pool with Dani in Missouri. Just like I stopped ringing the doorbell to the neighbors across the street asking the only girl my age to play in the creek behind our house. Just like I stopped decorating my room with J-14 magazine posters the night I blindly stumbled towards the kitchen for a glass of water only to find my mom curled up on the couch. 

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“Why are you sleeping out here?” I asked. 

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“I just have a headache,” she mumbled. “Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

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I did not feel satisfaction knowing the words that rolled off her tongue were easily detected lies, or when I found her there again the next night. Only a thin sheet tucked under her chin.

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I hated it. I hated those walls. That house. 

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I hated that I would quickly gather my snacks and turn off the television when the faint hum of the garage door would open at 3:27pm. I hated when heavy work boats sounded on the hardwood instead of the clicking of high heels. I hated that I wouldn’t dare go to the kitchen no matter how much my stomach still grumbled. I hated that she got home later and later each day. I hated that I watched the loud optimistic woman that I’d known for fifteen years become mute within four months. 

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I hated that I retreated to the sickening deep violet. I hated that I would retreat to the room that I wanted to escape. I hated it as I would watch the sun dance shadows along those dark walls and realized that the shadows and I had something in common. 

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He couldn’t enter my room without permission. He never did enter, though. 

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A small mercy. 

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And yet my heart still lurched in my chest when a knock sounded at my bedroom door, all the air leaving my lungs when the knob turned and she appeared—not him. I almost didn’t catch the small frown as she looked at the wall above my head before she beamed at me, stepping into the purple.

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Never at me. Never once did she frown at me.