Green was the colour of the fat stalks of the bramble bushes as they brushed against my thighs striding through the gaps in the hedges into the shelter of the fading green forest canopy in the warm downpour. Green was the colour of the spiky conker shells on the tree in the garden waiting to fall down onto the green grass with a bump. White was the colour of their linings, some landing intact some splitting open on impact. Green was always my favourite colour.
Orange was the colour of the tangerines, their peels shining, polished and dimpled, rolling around in the fruit bowl. White was the colour of their furry pith, picked off delicately by eager little fingers. Orange was the colour of November as I scoured the internet and the shops for presents for the children. White was the colour of my purse lining as it became papered with credit card receipts and lists of things to do before I ran out of time.
Red was the colour of my cheeks as I strode through the forest with crisp, white leaves underfoot, with my red dog collecting holly with red berries for Christmas, trying to forget about all the things I hadn’t done but should have. Red was the colour of the blood that flowed from my arm through the needle into little plastic tubes, off to the lab, examined by a white coat, in a white room. White was the colour of my face when the doctor spoke to me the following week.
White would be the last colour I saw vividly. I would become an incomplete rainbow, a quarter-circle; no more rays of sun would pass through my glass body projecting colours. The sharpness of the brambles, conkers and holly leaves dissolved into a dull fog.