YELLOW

BONUS CHAPTER

"I can't wait to get home," my classmate exclaimed as the bell rang, his voice filled with eagerness. But for me, the thought of going home was anything but thrilling; each day felt like a return to a prison sentence.

The school bus followed the same route day in and day out, and I was always the last kid to be dropped off. Raphael, the driver, knew I preferred to linger in my thoughts, and he obliged by making me the final stop. As we rolled through the familiar streets, I gazed out the window, letting the world blur into a haze of color and noise.

"Here we are, Marcus. This is your stop," Raphael called out, his voice breaking through my reverie. I nodded, grabbing my backpack as I prepared to disembark.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, extending his fist for a quick bump. I met it with my own, appreciating the brief connection in a world that often felt isolating.

Being fourteen was a complex experience. For some, it was a time of laughter, freedom, and discovering oneself; for me, it was a labyrinth of confusion and loneliness. As I stepped off the bus and walked toward the enormous villa that loomed ahead, I greeted the gardeners who tended to the sprawling grounds. Their glances were curious and, today, tinged with something I couldn't quite place—a mixture of concern and pity.

I noticed Rosa standing near the entrance, her hand pressed against her heart and tears glistening in her eyes. I couldn't fathom why she looked so distressed, but I felt an unsettling knot form in my stomach. Ignoring the discomfort, I tightened my grip on my backpack straps and continued inside.

As I crossed the threshold, the familiar scent of burning wood filled the air. My father, Robert Baker, sat by the fireplace, a pipe clenched between his teeth as he watched documents turn to ash. The sight of him sent a chill down my spine. I had always felt out of place around him, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

"Hi," I said innocently, hoping to bridge the growing chasm between us. I started toward my room, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere.

But he interrupted me, his voice dripping with disdain. "Your mother died."

I froze, the words crashing over me like a tidal wave. I turned to face him, struggling to comprehend the casual tone he used, as if he were discussing the weather rather than delivering the most devastating news of my life.

"Do you understand my language, kid? Your mother died," he repeated, his voice rising in pitch, growing more frantic.

Just then, my older brother Nate walked in, his face pale and drawn. He pulled me by the arm, urgency radiating from him as my father's words echoed in the room. "She died! She died!"

The reality of the statement hit me like a punch to the gut. I stood there, frozen in disbelief, my heart racing as the implications sank in. My mother—my anchor, my comfort—was gone.

"Dad, what do you mean?" My voice trembled, a whisper barely escaping my lips. "How? When?"

My father's expression twisted into something unrecognizable, a mix of anger and grief. "It doesn't matter how! She's gone, Marcus. You need to understand that."

Nate's grip on my arm tightened as he led me away from the chaos, his own eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. We retreated to the quiet of the hallway, the faint crackle of the fire fading into the background.

"What happened?" I managed to ask, the words feeling like stones lodged in my throat.

Nate hesitated, his gaze distant as if he were searching for the right words in a sea of pain. "She... she had been sick for a while. We thought she was getting better." His voice cracked, and I could see the anguish etched on his face.