Heaven in Teal

Perhaps it is the thought of the chair that frightens her. Perhaps it is the essence of the chair — not its screaming teal, but its slipperiness, its weight. Perhaps when she looks at it, she sees the man she has been running from. He will hold her there, if she sits, with clammy fingers tight around her thighs. She will stop breathing so he forgets she is there. He never forgets. She will not breathe, but he will hold her there, and she will die. That is when the colors appear on the wall: the vibrant stringy winds from all of the places where everything glows and no one sits.