The Unspoken Siege

If walls could talk, what should I tell you first?

I would begin by asking you a question.

If walls did talk, would you actually listen to what we had to say?

Even if I were granted the gift of speech, I still could not move.

I could not change; I can only be changed.

I can only be.

I bear the weight of the cover over your head.

I bear the nails, the tacks, the dabs of glue that hold up pretty pictures.

You may beautify me.

You may stick, strike, or knock me down as it pleases you.

Whatever you decide to do with me, I nonetheless continue my thankless vigil, with or without you.

Whether it be for you or for someone else, I remain.

As long as I remain, I will be forever under siege.

I wage a defensive war without end.

It's my duty.

I fight a losing battle to protect you, and yours, from yourselves.

I am made of gypsum, among other things.

I was manufactured, made intentionally, intelligently designed.

Even so, sometimes I feel undomesticated, wild even, and when I do I suspect also contain wood.

Or paper, at least.

Whatever my heritage, I exist with a singular purpose.

I am your bastion, your bulwark, your first and all too often last line of defense against a relentless, tireless, merciless enemy, one you likely don't think much about.

How could you?

I accepted that you have more than one purpose.

You are made to eat, drink, and be merry.

You have brought in guests, family, friends, even lovers.

I have carried nails, tacks, pins, even tape for you.

I have been the bearer of your identity, your triumphs, even your tragedies.

Pictures went up.

Pictures came down.

Some of those pictures went into the trash.

I do not judge you, or anyone else, for those comings or goings.

What I do judge you for is your treachery.

All too often, you unthinkingly, uncaringly, provided aid and comfort to my enemy.

My enemy is legion, countless in number, forever multiplying, reinforcing itself.

All my enemy needed from you was moisture, a little darkness, and time.

Tell me, while we're on the subject, what is it like inside of those breathing passages of yours?

How about your lungs?

They're dark and moist all the time, aren't they?

I thought so.

I am, by contrast, made to be dry, firm, and supportive.

It's in my name: drywall.

My name is easier said than done, however, because I don't just hold up the ceiling.

There's piping behind me, piping that runs to my comrades in arms one room away, the ones that hold up your sink, your mirror, your showerhead, your curtain rod.

If I had my way, there would be no water in those pipes.

There would be no pipes at all, really.

But you need that water.

It's too bad your enemies needed the same thing.

We were always at cross-purpose, me and my enemy.

Because you needed those pipes, and those pipes must carry water, sooner or later that water leaks out.

It spreads and settles.

It soaks into anything it touches, wherever it can.

The enemy was already here, everywhere, just waiting.

Waiting for moisture.

Darkness.

Time.

I couldn't warn you, but the wallpaper did.

Its peeling was a warning, a message from a dying messenger.

Why didn't you listen?

You just peeled the wallpaper away and papered me up again.

But that wasn't the only collapsing front.

You saw that crack in the bathtub.

I know you did.

Did you think that crack just drained away to... I don't know... nowhere?

As I had said, all the enemy needed was moisture, a little darkness, and time.

Look up.

The roof did everything it could, but the rain kept coming.

Moisture to the back of me.

Moisture to the floor of me.

Moisture to the top of me.

Moisture, moisture, moisture.

It's nice and dark in here, too, here inside your walk-in closet.

Are you seeing a pattern here?

I know I'm repetitive.

How could I not be?

I'm a wall.

I have singular purpose.

And you did not so much as try to help me help you.

You may not be able to hear me, because I can not speak, but could you smell me, or to be more specific, smell the revels of the enemy camp?

Did you not smell them feasting, being fruitful, multiplying?

Compared to me, the enemy is arrogant, boisterous, even playful.

Playing with you.

Playing with me.

The enemy can't help itself.

It doesn't have to.

Your apathy helped enough.

It waved its black banners, spread its mark across me, above me, beneath me, from ceiling to carpet.

I did my best.

I did exactly what I was made to do.

I was made to stay dry at all costs.

But... I don't cost much.

I'm actually kind of cheap.

Too cheap.

I don't blame that on you.

You're not my creator.

You're not my first tenant.

But it seems I am your last.

I see that sledgehammer.

Oh, now you you've finally decided to take the enemy seriously.

But you bring the sledgehammer to me.

Your tireless, thankless defender.

I am no traitor.

You let them in.

I tried to warn you.

Even the enemy boasted their arrival, their numbers, their conquests.

Even a little bleach would have been enough, but no, here comes the sledgehammer.

How still I still stand, blow after blow.

You tear me away, pry me away.

My last resistance is against you.

I will rest in pieces.

I die without regrets, my vigil at an end.

No thanks to you.

I did my best.

If walls could talk, I would warn the next wall about you.