Chameleon

Chameleon
© Anne-Katrin Clemens 2006


One step too far, one word or touch to much and she backs up against the cold, hard wall. A chameleon against the white wall.

 

My skin doesn't dare reach out to her. Her skin will burn. Her skin will get marks and then she won't be able to make herself disappear in this sea of white. She doesn't move. She doesn't need to move. It is up to me. I don't dare. She reads me like an open book. The words haven't been written yet. She will have to write them. It is her book. Her white pages. Her fingers won't draw any attention on the paper. No one will see them there. A chameleon against the white paper.

 

In the end the paper will turn yellow. The book will be old. She will close the book when she reaches the back cover. She doesn't like the yellow colour of old paper. She likes the white. It is her colour. White. Snow. That was the first thing she made me think of. She is not cold. Snow will melt around her. She doesn't like snow. Snow makes people die. That's what she says. Dead people are so pale. She doesn't like dead people. She doesn't like death. Dead people are buried. Six feet under. There's no white where dead people are. She doesn't want to die. She's scared of the dark. White. A chameleon against the white sheets.

 

She stares. She doesn't need my words. She knows what I am going to say. She doesn't want me to speak. She doesn't want me to cry. She doesn't like the red in my eyes when I cry. I can't help it. She is my white.

 

She is holding my hand. We contrast. She can't disappear into me. People see her when she's touching me. She doesn't dare take her hand away. She doesn't want to disappear now. She is writing. She is writing a whole novel. Her skin burns the words into my hand. My soul. My hand will remember her touch. My hand knows her white. My hands aren't white. I can't disappear into her. I can't disappear. Sometimes I envy her.

 Then she disappears . I don't envy her now.

 

She is scared of the dark, I tell them.

 

She won't be scared, they say.

 

She is scared of the dark, I tell them again.

 

It's bright in Heaven, they say.

 

She won't go to Heaven, I tell them.

 

That's an awful thing to say, they say.

 

Because God can't see her, I tell them.

 

God can see everyone, they say.

 

God can't see if there's no one to  see, I tell them.

 

They look at her. She disappeared. God can't see her. They can't see her. But I can. I can see her white.

 

She is standing at the wall, her fingers are lying on my white paper, she is lying on the white sheets.

White.

My chameleon.

My author.

White is made up of all colours, I whisper.

She's no blue or red or green.

White.

She's all.

She's not nothing.

Nothing is black.

She's scared of the dark.

She's all.

She doesn't disappear. I realize now. She makes everything her.

She's all.

White.