Yellow curtains, just hanging there, eternally closed, ignorant and lifeless, clothing the front of this little window. Nothing moved, the outside was yellow, the light was yellow.
It wasn’t even a nice shade of yellow. The color belonged to a white eighties rapper that never made it but still clung to his bright yellow pants.
The curtains were made of a nasty stiff material, like a short pleated shower curtain. The front door cracked open angrily and dislodged the coat rack behind it, further annoying the shooter as he plundered inside. He smashed his gun down on the table, reached for a beer from the fridge and sat in a ripped old armchair facing the door.
Quietly, in the next room, she was on alert and fixed on the yellow curtains, her only color against the darkness in the house, th
