The hanging bulb gave yellow light to the scene. Yellow light to the yellow man writing on the yellow tablet atop a yellow desk in a yellow room.
He was stumped at Dear. Who was Dear? What was Dear? Where was Dear? If he knew, would he be here, sitting in the yellow light, staring at the yellow paper?
He had come to this room, his mother’s room, because it was hers, of course. Because he had never quite left this room since childhood. Because he had not been in this room since her death.
“Dear…” he wrote again, following the shaky black lines over and over and over on the yellow.
“…Momma,” he scrawled.
But seeing her name, the name only he had called her, caused him to choke. He could taste the yellow bile rising in the back of his throat.
With deep black gashes, he struck Momma from the page.
And cocking the pistol, he wished, for a moment, that he could stay to see red wash away all the yellow.