When I was a kid, I was very intrigued by my neighbours. My mom always told me to stay out of their yards, as well as their business, but I was too interested. Everyone that resided on Easy street had their own stories to tell, and I wanted to hear all of them.

By the time that I entered first grade, I was on a first name basis with pretty much everyone on my street. The small group of close friends I had in my class always told me I was weird for being so interested in other people's lives, but I didn't care. It was normal to me.

I would walk home after school each day, and greet everyone that I passed. Mrs.Amy McKutch lives at the top of the street in a blue house, and I've always been sort of jealous of how she has such a nice view of the street. My house on the other hand, is near the bottom, and it doesn't have as nice of a view as her house does. Mrs.McKutch and I used to sit on her front porch on warm summer nights, and like queens on our thrones, we would watch the sun set. When the street lights had illuminated the street, I would pedal my purple bike all the way down to my house.

After I recklessly disposed my bike on our front lawn, I skipped up the front porch and into the house. I still remember what my mother always said to me:

"Emerald Jerilynn Green! Where in God's name have you been? Don't tell me that you were bothering Amy McKutch again!"

"I wasn't bothering her mom, she told me that she enjoys my company!" I proudly stated.

She didn't say anything else, as she took off my hoodie and hung it up. I walked into the kitchen, and picked up the lingering scents of the supper that she had made hours earlier.

Since my mom died when I was in the third grade, I can't recall smelling anything else in our kitchen besides junk food, alcohol, and take out. I know that nowadays my father isn't up for cooking, let alone anything else, but I just wish that he'd make an effort.

Now, when I come home from school, there is no one waiting for me behind our green door; no one that cares, that is. I open the door myself, and go into the kitchen, before realizing that the cupboards are basically empty other than some baking supplies from the time that I had a baking phase. I don't feel like eating flour however, so I retreat to my room, where I crash onto my bed, and stare at the yellow wallpaper for what feels like decades. I listen for hours on end, to the faint sound of the local news on the tv in my father's room.

"Em? Come here!" my mom shouted one day, from the other room. "Let's go down to the hardware store."

As we pulled into the parking lot, she handed me a sum of money, and told me to go inside and choose a colour of paint for my room. I could not believe my ears. Since we'd moved into our house, my room had been the ugliest shade of beige. I remember staring at all of the different selections, before narrowing my choices down to two colours; yellow and purple. After deciding to go with the yellow paint, I ran out of the store, eager to show my mom.

She had told me that she'd loved my choice, and that the yellow reminded her of me; always happy and bright.

That yellow wallpaper is now the only thing that is happy and bright about our house.

After staring at the wallpaper, I prop myself up with some pillows, and stare out of the window at the other houses instead.

Out of my bedroom window, I can see some of the neighbours out in their yards.

Mr. & Mrs. Jefferson are a blast to the past. Despite being over 80 years old, the two of them are quite agile, and are always out around town. Right now however, they have just pulled up to their red and White house in their AMC Gremlin.

I watch as he gets out frantically, and kneels down to inspect a scratch on the car. Despite the car having been made in the 70's, Mr. Jefferson treats the relic like there is nothing more precious in the world.

I remember a couple of years ago, my parents were both at work, and I had missed the bus after school. I had telephoned their house, asking if they'd give me a ride home. I probably should've called another neighbour, I realize now, but their phone number was the only one I could remember at the time.

"No, no, no, don't touch anything my dear!!" Seemed to be the only thing in Mr. Jeffersons vocabulary the entire time we were driving home. Mrs.Jefferson kept on telling me what the temperature was that day, although I don't remember ever asking her. They had a broken thermometer taped to their dashboard, and I had to hold back laughter as she told me in all seriousness that it was 76 degrees celsius outside.

Now, I chuckle as I watch them argue in their driveway, before Mr. Jefferson storms into their house, leaving Mrs. Jefferson to bring in all of their groceries. Even more giggles escape my lips as I watch her drop the bags that she is carrying. A dozen bottles of mandarins roll down the driveway and she scrambles to collect them. I probably should help her out, but then I remember the strange encounter that we had years ago. I'd rather not have an extensive discussion on today's forecast with Mrs.Jefferson.

I often wonder what life would be like if I had been another family on the street's child. Even the Jeffersons would be a better family to me than my father ever has been. Instead of cooped up in my room listening to my habitual drunkard of a father constantly asking me to grab him another bottle of Jack Daniels, I might be having a nice supper in another home. If only.

As night encases our house, I drift into a state of unconscious, letting all my thoughts fade away into the darkness, until there is nothing left but my dreams.

The first thing I hear when I wake up is the sound of a woman talking downstairs in the kitchen. I roll over and check the time on my alarm clock. It reads 10:12am. Dad should be gone to work by now, which means that either I'm crazy and am hearing voices, or there is an intruder downstairs.

Determined to keep my sanity, I quickly grab my lamp and take off the lampshade, so I am left with a metal rod. My mind is having a party with all the different thoughts running through my head. Is my mom still alive? Did I only dream that she was dead? I lower the brass rod to my side and I quicken my pace, curious to see if my theory is right.

My heart is pounding as I near the bottom of the stairs. My logic finally kicks in, and I realize that there is no possible way that my mom could be alive. Who on earth is in our house? Had dad brought someone home?

I've never been so relieved in my life as I am right now. Instead of an axe wielding murderer, as I enter the kitchen I see Luisa Marr, a lady that lives a few houses up the street. Not to say I'm not absolutely befuddled as to why she is standing there in my kitchen, but at least I'm not in any imminent danger.

Luisa has severe Alzheimer's, so I have to be careful as I approach her. She might not remember who I am, or what she is doing in my house.

I clear my throat.

"Luisa, what are you doing?" I ask her in the calmest voice I that can manage at the moment.

"Just making you some breakfast, my sweet Priscilla!" she replies, as if she has known me her entire life. Her speech is slurred, and her hands tremble as she pours chocolate chips into a bowl.

As I think of how to get her out of my house, she continues to prepare breakfast. How did she even get here in the first place? Did she just think that this was her house, and walked inside? How am I going to tell her that I have no idea who Priscilla is?

She suddenly stops mixing her pancake batter, turns her head and stares at me. I take a half-step backwards, and watch her eyes as they study every part of my body. I slowly reach for the house phone on the counter, and right as I pick it up, she bursts into tears.

I don't know whether or not to comfort her, or get rid of her. I choose the latter, and dial 9-1-1. Luisa wipes her face, and turns back to the bowl she was using. I see her grab a knife, and she starts to approach me. I start moving back towards the front door. Right before I think that she is going to stab me, she makes a sharp turn right, and opens up the fridge. As she bends down to grab something, I take the chance to run out of the house, and onto the front lawn.

In minutes, a cop car arrives, and they escort Ms.Marr out of our house. When they come out of the house, I see that she has dipped the ends of her hair in the pancake batter, and is mumbling to one officer how she needs to wash the "shampoo" out of her hair before she leaves.

After they've left, I go inside to clean up the mess that she has made. What I thought was going to be a five minute process, ended up taking over 2 hours as to my surprise, she had splattered the batter all over the walls, ceiling, and floor. By the time I am done, my father is just coming in the door.

Instead of a simple "hello", my father greets me:"Emerald get me a beer, would you?"

I comply, and open up the fridge, only to discover that there isn't a single drop of alcohol left in there. He yells at me to hurry up, and I go over to the garbage can. In there, are five empty cans of beer, two empty whiskey bottles, and a bottle of vodka which is, like the others: empty. I know for a fact that my father didn't drink those, as he always disposes his liquor bottles in the garbage bin in his room.

Luisa must have drank all of them before I woke up.

This is not good.

"There is nothing to drink in the fridge," I report to him.

He gets up in my face. "What was that?"

"I-I said that there is no alcohol in the fridge."

He grabs a fist of my green hair.

"Dad, stop! Please let go of me!" I plead, but he keeps pulling my hair.

"What?!" He shouts at me, "Did you think you could take all of my booze and hide it from me?"

Before I have a chance to explain to him that Luisa drank it, he pushes me backwards, and I collapse onto the floor. He turns around, and storms out of the house, slamming the door. I rub my scalp.

The only other time that he has ever physically hurt me like this, was when I had first dyed my hair.

About a year ago, I had been in a huge fight with my dad and was fed up with him, so I left the house and on the spur of the moment, dyed my hair green in a gas station bathroom. I showed up on Mrs. McKutch's front porch in tears, asking if I could spend the night at her house.

The next morning when I had returned home, in a similar manner my father had slapped me, and had threatened to cut off all of my "ugly green hair".

Dad doesn't come back for hours, and by the time he does, I've taken the time to grab a few blankets and pillows. When I see his car pull into the driveway, I lock myself in the bathroom, where I spend the night on the bathroom floor.