text: I used to stare out of my window, when the nurse would draw the curtains on pleasant afternoons. The only sunshine I’d ever get was what escaped the delicate wisps shielding my room from the prying eyes of the outside world. I never minded that people could see me from the street. I watched them all the time, why shouldn’t they watch me? Everyday, like clockwork, people would march back and forth on the pavement, casual strolls, hustling, bursting steps, cars. When the nurse drew the curtains, I could see everything. My piece of the world was minuscule in comparison to what the ones I watched could see, but I was happy. Until I saw the Red Umbrella. It was a sunny July afternoon, the same faces crossing my sight as always, plastered expressions uniform. Men in suits and women in sundresses with little children paced through my strip of paradise, and I watched them. I watched them just like I did everyday from the sour gentleness of my sheets. They chose a cream color for me, but as the days went by it began to look like rubbing alcohol. Then, while I slept, they’d take away the bleached cloth and I would wake up in a jarring mesh of yellow. The cycle would repeat. Again, it was a sunny July afternoon, after they replaced my bedding, I found myself watching the same faces as always. I paid no mind to the uniformity of the scene; compared to the untextured, colorlessness of my walls, anything was beautiful. Then I saw the Red Umbrella. It was an unexpected streak of vibrancy in my strip of reality, drastic in comparison to the sunflower yellows, deep greens, and subdued grays that I so often saw from my window. Just as abruptly as it arrived, the Candy Apple disappeared from my vision. I found myself craning my neck to catch an extra millisecond of the Sweet Taste, but my fragile limbs shook from the effort. I sank back into the stifling cotton my head was fated to rest upon, weighed down by my imperfections. It wasn’t raining that day. My eyes held open by midnight ponderings gripped the Red Umbrella. Who carried It? I would give anything to walk in the warmth of the sun, feeling its raw touch, unobscured by curtains or glass. Who would cover themselves from its affectionate embrace? I didn’t understand. The Red Umbrella wasn’t there the next morning, or the one after, or even the following Monday. But I couldn’t get Its image out of my mind. It stayed there, burned behind my eyelids, appearing on the bedspread, haunting me whenever I blinked. I asked the nurse to keep the curtains open, just in case It came some other time of day. She gave me a quizzical look, but obliged, figuring an expanded horizon would do me good. It was the same. Night time yielded no different presence. The bustle was hushed, the still activities of the dark creeping through the street, unnoticed by the uninterested moonlight. I sighed, but out of the corner of my eye, I could’ve sworn I saw a Dash of Scarlet against the shadows. I turned stiffly, black dots dappling my vision. A hand was illuminated in the somber shine of the moon. An matte-white glove wrapped around the burgundy handle of the Red Umbrella. I could see It from my window, only a few feet away from the glass, fog creeping in from the edges. A moment, then It disappeared behind the translucent wall that separated me from life. And again, I waited. I woke up one morning to the sound of my door being shut. I was disoriented at first, but it only took a blink to be washed over by the numbing scent of fresh paint. It was like carbonation behind my eyes, bubbles bursting in my mind. I choked on the thick air, able to taste the sourness of the atmosphere. To combat the stinging, I shrunk into my bedding, it suddenly becoming my only solace. I laid there for hours, covered by my blanket. The empty white was grey from underneath, a soothing change from what usually crossed my sight. It was peaceful, and I found myself sinking into a gently rocking state of sleep. I dreamed of nothing. Months went by without another appearance from the Red Umbrella. My days blurred together, sometimes I would see a different colored car drive by, or a woman wearing a new dress, but that was the only spice I tasted. Slowly, my limbs grew stiffer, I found myself stuck, dependent on the mercy of room around me. The only exits being the door and the window. I began to resent the window. When the nurse left it open for a breeze to sweep through, I turned my face away. I turned away from everything. My gaze was fixated on the wall, what used to be a colorless canvas was now tinted an unflattering pale. When I asked the nurse why they had painted over the walls she only mentioned that there were chips in multiple places, and they had to add another layer of white to fix it. To stifle any sense of texture more like. She closed the window and left me to wander the cathedral of my mind. That night, I forgave the window. The crescent moon swung back and forth on its axis, like a pendulum counting the seconds till midnight. I heard footsteps, echoing the way water does when it drops onto puddles in caves. I blinked and there It was. The Red Umbrella hovered just outside, and I could see the figure holding It. Delicate white gloves, olive skin, a flowing black dress that shone in the moonlight. She held an empty hand out to me, face shielded by the shadow of the Red Umbrella. I opened my mouth to speak to her, but before I could utter a word, she drew her invitation back and transgressed my view. The nurse didn’t come the next morning. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, a flat surface with a single hanging light. I could feel warmth radiating from the window, but I didn’t have the energy to look over. I heard the door open, gentle breathing followed and dripping footsteps. It was the woman with the Red Umbrella. My frozen body was pressed into the sheets, white glue trapping my limbs. I felt afraid. I had wanted for months to touch the Red Umbrella, but now that It was here, I was terrified. I had too many thoughts, unsteady breaths, holding me back from the Reverie I had so eagerly yearned for. “You’ve been waiting for me,” the woman’s voice was silk, a gentle breeze on a pleasant Tuesday, the soothing kiss of the ocean after burning sand rips away one’s soul. She closed the Red Umbrella, revealing her face. She didn’t have definitive features. I could see a thousand colors in her eyes, a hundred different faces, all of which I remembered but couldn’t quite place. She was familiar, like a childhood memory, lost for years, revisited by my consciousness. I stared at her, or more accurately, I stared at the Red Umbrella. It was pointing at my chest within arm’s reach, more vibrant than ever. “We’re ready for you.” My numb body began to sting, like needles pricking my arms and legs, shaking. I extended my hand and grabbed hold of the Scarlet Rod. The woman and I walked through the street together, she had handed me my own umbrella, an excited yellow, a smile hovering above me, keeping me sheltered from the rain. We walked past houses and gardens and schools, until we came across a weary building. I noticed an open window, curtains ruffled in the wind like butterfly wings. In the shadows of the room, I could just make out two figures, one fixated on the ceiling, cascaded by snowy sheets, the other knelt beside the bed, gripping the resting figure’s limp hand. “What’s happened?” I asked the woman as we continued along the path together. She was silent. Buildings became trees, thick forests of emerald with dancing birds calling out from their hiding places. The rain had stopped, and the woman turned to me, finally with an answer to my greatest question. “You’ve finally gone to sleep.