The Walls are green. Green that reminds the eye of nature, where ferns curl around eachother and leaves fan out from the same point.

The Walls are green, for as far as she knows.

The little that she gets to know from under The Blanket, that obscures the rest if her veiw.

While The Walls are green, The Blanket is never one color. Most often it is white, but sometimes it is red, others it is yellow, and others more it is green.

The Walls are green though, that, she knows.

And so, she sees it when The Walls Shift.

One day, when she blinked herself awake, she no longer saw only green.

In the spaces between ferns and leaves, yellow flowers began to bud.

She was confused in the beginning. Where had the flowers come from? The Walls did not change. She hadn’t known, before now, The Walls _could_ change.

Unfortunately, she had little time to think about it before her eyes grew heavy once again.

…

Each time she opened her eyes after, the flowers were closer along to maturity. A few of them even started to unfurl to reveal their orange centers.

That, had begun to frighten her. There were questions left unanswered in the blooms’ presence.

When were they painted? Who was the one that put them there? And, most importantly, why had they?

These questions she had no answer to. As the days passed further, she wished more that she did.

If only she had seen, she could’ve protested before they even appeared.

If only she could find out who, she could ask them to stop.

If only she could pull back The Blanket to paint over them herself, she would never have to fear the why.

And again, she lie there, helpless to the slow unraveling of those heaven-touched flowers.

…

The girl blinked awake once again, now expecting swirling yellow walls to greet her. For, long ago, they had covered the green she once knew.

The Walls are yellow. Yellow, a sickly, pale yellow. They reminded her of flowers that crowded together in a vase next to her bed.

The Walls are yellow, this is something she has learned.

And so, once again, she sees it when The Walls Shift.

Her expectations were not met when her eyes landed on yellow flowers, adorned with tiny red berries.

This time, though, she understood. The Walls were not green, neither would they soon be yellow.

There is nothing she could do to stop The Walls from Shifting to red.

She blinked once, and the berries grew. She blinked again, and they grew some more.

Melancholy sang it’s song though her but there was nothing she could do to silence it.

So she sang along without complaint, watching The Walls bleed.

And The Walls bled, and they bled, until they were soaked in the red of berry juice.

She closed her eyes of stone again. Tiredness frequently burned through her now, and she didn’t attempt to fight sleep anymore.

The Walls are red. Red reminding of hot blood slowly dripping out from an invisible hole in her skin.

The Walls are red, something she has no hope in remaining true.

When she blinked awake, The Walls were, as she expected, no longer _only_ red.

This time the red berries had withered and grown fuzzy white mold on their skin.

The girl’s body stilled- how it could further _be _stilled, she couldn’t begin to guess- as she traced the jagged white lines with her eyes.

This is what she had expected, _she knew_, but… The Walls could’ve just _stayed_ _red_!

Nothing, _nothing_, ever did what she expected it to do! Why did this?!

The Walls were perfectly fine being **green**! They could’ve even stayed yellow or red, and it would be better than **this**!! How was it fair?!

Her trembles got worse and she felt the tempature rise, making her cheeks no doubt ruddy with rage. With what little strength she still had, she thrust The Blanket off her.

**She’d rip of this stupid wallpaper off if it was the last thing she got to do!**

One step out of her bed and she collapsed. Her gangley limbs, too long for her age, dug painfully into floor. Her weakend lung wheezed and spat, vision spinning with red and white.

She woke up in bed, The Blanket firmly securing her in her place.

The girl grit her teeth still, maybe somewhat foolishly, but she could no longer care. All she felt was the burning heat that made her knuckles grow white with sinew.

For as long as she was able, everyday she glared up at The Wall. It did nothing to stop the fuzz from growing.

Soon, The Wall was a pure white. White that was smooth as snow when it fell as a blanket over once thriving meadows.

She felt the burn every day, an all-encompasing fury at the color.

The Walls are white, but she could not accept that.

…

This time, The Walls did not Shift.

She woke up to pure white walls, as she had for some time. Today, though, black smoke curled up in its corners.

Instictively, she felt afraid of the tendrils that sprung up from that void. They beckoned her to a place she did not know of.

She shrank deeper into The Blanket she’d resented but now held up, shakily, as a sheild.

…

The girl’s bouts a sleep grew shallow. Nightmares shrouded her mind, waking up with cold sweat streaking down her face.

Each time she woke, the smoke grew closer, fluxuating and twisting in a hypnotic dance.

It told her to be calm. It assured her the void is good. It would treat her well.

…

The girl was tired… so. tired. The void was soft, forgiving.

It wrapped its tender arms around her.

It would not allow her to suffer anymore.