The yellow wall

France, circa 2010

France, circa 2010


The chair had been pushed up into the corner as if backing away from an enemy.

The corner was as far as it could go. I read a story once about a young man who assumed the physical presence of furniture.

The back of the chair was flat and lifeless like a face with too much botox. Smooth and unlined except for a flourish of decoration at the top of the wooden frame. The wall behind was losing its colour. A sweep of colour washed across the plaster. Maybe it was painted in a hurry. A gesture by the painter.

Claustrophobic. I feel claustrophobic when I look at it. The walls begin to close in behind me. I’m starting to be pressed towards the wall. I reach out my hands and press them in. The wall is soft and cool. So soft my hands sink right in. I pull one way. I leave a print. A mark of my own. The chair doesn’t move. It sits, unmoving. I sit down. The seat is soft underneath my thighs. The corner begins to bend and fold in on me. I close my eyes and disappear.

Feeling brave? Want to share your story? In the words of one Disney princess, Let it go, in the comments below.