Yul starred at the door with its small window, puckered her lips, sighed, and, throwing her head into the pillow, looked at the ceiling. White, she thought. Why is everything white? White, white, and frailing white. Frail me if I ever decorate a frailing room in frailing white.

Tapping her fingers on the crisp white sheets she reached, without looking, for her comm on the nightstand. She could find it with her eyes closed now, which is what happens when you pick the damn thing up a hundred times in as many minutes. And a hundred times the message was the same—nothing. She pulled her arm back as if to hurl the small object against the wall before remembering the incident with the phone and muttered under her breath with a sideways glance, Where the frailing frail is everyone?

Closing her eyes the words echoed through the halls of her memory. Where the frail is everyone, where the frail is everyone, where the . . .

The sun had set quickly and the addresses were hard to read. Yul pulled the note out of her coat pocket, reread the address, looked at the door and took a deep breathe. This was it. Just knock, that’s all, just knock. She opened the screen door and was about to knock when a small white object caught her eye—a note. Unfolding the paper she read these words: So sorry. Something has come up. Another time perhaps. Then she read it again and then again and again, reading without moving, reading without thinking, reading without feeling her feet on the ground.

Yul just stood on the old gray wooden porch, her head bent over, the note hanging loosely in her right hand like a leaf in autumn feeling the pull of gravity. She starred at the writing as if starring would reveal some hidden meaning, some explanation that would soothe the sickening feeling growing in her gut. But stare all she might, the house was dark, the door locked and this note was all there was. Silence never sounded so loud and although no one else was on the street she felt as if a hundred eyes were boring a hole in her back. Her neck tensed and turning her head, assuming she wanted to, became next to impossible.

Balling the note in her delicate hand she felt a wave of heated emotion rise from her tight chest to her glassy eyes, and as if her soul itself needed release into the cool night air, one tear followed another in an endless steam of repressed self-hatred. Why me?

Three hours later . . .

“Dad, can you hear me?”

“Yes Yul, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my keys.”

“Tell me where you are, I’ll be right there.”

One hour later . . .

“Dear, what happened?” asked Ms Yul.

“Get the little lying bitch cleaned up and in bed. I’ll deal with this frailing shiott in the morning.”

Yul lay on the ground in the fetal position. Her face was a mess. Her vision blurred and her clothes matted with a most foul smelling stain. Looking up she saw Aly, her eyes wide, in her pristine white nightgown. Nothing needed to be said. There was Aly and there was Yul. One standing and one on the ground. Seems this is the way it would always be.

“Turn out the light!” yelled Yul, trying to cover her eyes.

“Sorry Yul, but I thought you’d like to know you have a visitor,” said the nurse, dressed, of course, in all white.

Commentary Part 1

Commentary Part 2 with cameo from Maria