If walls could talk

If walls could talk they'd have some crazy stories to tell. For example, little Miss Victim here, her head hanging low, her eyes hollow as though her body is just a shell. Her knuckles drag against my rough edges, so hard I can almost taste what is described as “a metallic tang” of blood. Her touch is far from loving or attentive and her actions are Automatic as if she has done this a hundred times before. Thankfully, she hasn't.

Of all the crazy things I have watched unravel in this house, this is by far the craziest. My current occupant calls herself ‘Rose’. She is as beautiful as her name suggests with auburn hair, pale skin and icy blue irises. She's occupied the house for 5 years. The disrespect she has shown me and my fellow walls over the years has been scathing. From punches, to bareback extracurricular activities. Although, the doors have almost been ripped from their hinges and the ceiling often shakes and sprinkles dust on the carpet. I consider myself less abused than the three of them.

I can feel the tacky splatters of blood in my crevices as she fails to pay me any attention. Her mucky handprint has also left a stain that I fear shall never be removed, only covered. I feel violated by her lack of care. Not as violated, perhaps, as the owner of said blood. I usually count myself lucky to have longstanding tenants, but Rose’s tenure has been unbearable. I'm surprised it has taken so long for this moment to occur. Rose blinks, awakening from her shocked stupor.

At this moment, I can hear and feel more than I ever have before. I can hear Rose’s heartbeat, and feel her warm breath. Worst of all, her voice invades my essence. It feels far more like a curse than a superpower. All Rose’s head swims with, is thoughts of herself, her self-entitled view that her perception is the only truth and her opinion is gospel. Not to mention her fears about how she may be perceived. God forbid that she is knocked from her pedestal.

‘I wonder if the walls would see tonight from my point of view?’ Rose thinks, leaning her back against my surface that is smothered in foamy bubbles. They struggle to cover the red sheen beneath them never mind removing it from existence entirely.

I snort, dismissively. “Hardly, dear.”

Rose stiffens for a moment then clears her throat.

“Why not?” She replies, out loud.

I am in shock. Did she hear my reply? My existence is filled with excitement at the idea of revealing some home truths to the women laying against me.

“ You know,” I mock. “You may lie to yourself, but we saw everything.”

“ It was self-defence.”

I am raging to hear her excuse. As usual, Rose will not take responsibility for her own actions. I have watched generations of families run down these halls. Only the youngest of them have ever had such ignorance of their own behaviour and the consequences that were to follow.

“So you say,” I mutter.

“He had his hands on my throat!”

“You asked him to”

“Not that hard,” She retorts.

“You love it rough.

“Know it all,” she seethes.

Rose’s face contorts into an unholy mix of rage and disbelief.

How can the walls not see I am a victim of his narcissistic and sly abuse? I know it was subtle, but they see everything.

“Yes, love,” I reply, confirming that I have seen everything.

Her manipulative shrieks have plagued this house’s existence for too long. We will be glad to see the door close behind her for a final time.

The wall farthest from me and Rose laughs, coldly, “and, we see you!”

Rose screams. It is a piercing noise, banshee-like and unhinged. If I had ears, my hands would be pressing hard against them for fear they may bleed at the sound. This a knock on the front door. Rose tip-toes, apprehensively towards the top of the landing overlooking the entrance. Her face is haunted. The orange glow from the street lamp outside casts an eerie light, tinging her skin and there is a deep shadow across her face.

“In here!” One wall shouted.

“She’s here!” I join in.

“Come in!”

“He’s in the bedroom!” I announce. I am excited at the drama that I, for once, get to be an active part of.

“Murderer!”

“Shut up!” Rose shrieks, her eyes widening in horror. She yanks at her roots in despair. The image she casts is inhuman.

“Hello!” A man calls from outside, “Is everything okay in there?” He raps harder against the door. His urgency vibrates through my plaster.

Rose turns blindly and runs into the master bedroom where the body of her former lover still lies. I can hear her rapid, fearful breaths from behind the door.

“Murderer,” I sing. My fellow walls sing in tandem, our voices echoing through the home.

“Police, open up or we are coming in!” A female voice shouts from downstairs.

I wish I could see Rose’s face as her dilemma unfolds before her eyes. This moment had been a long time coming. The bangs grow louder, followed by the smash of glass. The footsteps of multiple officers thud along the wooden floors. More walls and parts of the structure begin to animate, whispering loudly of Rose’s guilt. Although, I hear no acknowledgement from the officers. It seems only Rose is unlucky enough to hear our new-found voices tonight.

The officers storm up the stairs and follow the trail of blood, alongside the raspy, shallow breaths of Rose amid a panic attack. A pile of officers burst through the door.

“Oh, my god!”

One of the younger males wretches from behind the others.

“Miss, what happened here? Where you attacked?” The female officer asks while the other officers bustle around, checking for a pulse and calling for a medic.

“He’s still alive!” A voice bellows.

After a shocked pause, I hear Rose’s panic begin to rise.

“No, he can’t be. What will he think of me? Please, tell him not to listen to them, tell him I love him and to ring me as soon as he wakes up! I can explain!” Rose screams, distraught at the idea of her boyfriend losing love for her. She feared falling from the pedestal she built for herself.

The officer begins reading Rose her rights and cuffs my hands behind my back.

My fellow walls chuckle around the hall. They are relieved to have finally evicted Rose from their premises. The officer begins to drag a resistant Rose back through the hallway.

“I dread to think what they’ll say about me,” She whispers “I’m a good person, ask anyone.”

Once again, I remind myself of Rose’s manipulative, spiteful shrieks bouncing around the home and am comforted by the visual of her being removed from the property.

“If that is true then they will say nothing,” the officer replies, playing along.

“But, they will. Of course, they will. They’ve seen everything.”

“Who has?” The female cop asks.

“The walls!” Rose yells at her.

I catch a last glimpse of the injured man as the paramedics wheel him down the hallway on a stretcher. His body is not covered in a black bag. Instead, he is carefully, yet hastily, taken away. I sigh in relief, eager to enjoy the silence before a new family joins the fun. If walls could talk, we would tell you to appreciate what time there is left, also don’t judge a book by its cover.

Rose’s P.O.V

If walls could talk, they would tell you not to take people at face value. They’d also tell you life is too short to self-destruct. They’d say, I’d spent far too much time in their confines, and my time would be better spent elsewhere. Then again, if walls could talk, they might not meet my gaze, uncomfortable for me to know that they know, and they’d seen, and they’d heard everything.

Maybe, walls do talk. Maybe, they whisper amongst themselves and snigger at the door each time it is slammed, coyly telling the ceiling to hang to the rafters or risk falling atop my head. I can imagine these four walls having a twisted sense of humour. Would they divulge my secrets to each new visitor, sending them packing? Or, perhaps, they feel a strange sense of loyalty towards me. With everything we’ve been through together, perhaps they do. They’ve felt my bare back against their cold, hard plaster. My stained hands have trailed along their dado’s. My mark is a memory on the rugged artex that I detest so much. I wonder if the walls resent me as much as I do them. My captors. The barriers between me and life.

I wonder if they complain at my rough touch as I am scrubbing away my bloody prints. I’ve never been gentle. My hands slow to a stop. My shaky fingers are freezing, and wrinkled from the soapy water that is sitting, tepid, at my feet. The bright red bucket offends my sensitive, bloodshot eyes. I’ve spent far too much time, absentmindedly soaking the sharp-painted walls. My hands reddened from the contact. The walls are getting their own back, it seems. I squint against the light of a lone street lamp, shining against the pale paint. The bubbles somehow cling to the sharpened edges that adorn the walls, resisting the urge to burst. Far more resilient and even-tempered than myself. Tiredness prickles at the corner of my eyes, and tears fall from the soreness of prying them awake, or so I tell myself. The walls have a different story. For a moment I lean back against them and wonder if they would see tonight from my point of view.

“Hardly, dear.” The wall behind whispers in my ear.

I freeze, my body too tired to recoil. I clear the blockage from my throat. My voice betrays me, a rasp in the silence.

“Why not?” I reply.

“ You know,” it mocks. “You may lie to yourself, but we saw everything.”

“ It was self-defence.”

“So you say.”

“He had his hands on my throat!”

“You asked him to”

“Not that hard,” I shouted, exasperated.

“You love it rough.” Corrected the wall.

“Know it all,” I seethe.

Where there had been shock, it had been replaced by aghast disbelief, which is now drowning behind my rage. How can the walls not see I am a victim of his narcissistic and sly abuse? I know it was subtle, but they see everything.

“Yes, love.” It replies.

The wall farthest from me laughs, coldly, “and, we see you!”

I scream at it. Not a word, just a noise, filled with pure spite. I startle at a knock on the front door. Catching my breath, I tip-toe towards the top of the landing overlooking the entrance. There is a shadow hovering behind the clouded glass.

“In here!” One wall shouted.

“She’s here!” Said another

“Come in!”

“He’s in the bedroom!”

“Murderer!”

“Shut up!” I shriek, eyes widened in horror. I yank at my roots in despair. The man at the door hears my screams.

“Hello!” He calls, “Is everything okay in there?” He raps harder against the door. His knuckles must sting from the harsh contact.

My breath halts in my throat and I try my hardest to capture it, to no avail. More sharp breaths gather, each one coming faster and harsher than the one before. I run to the master bedroom and close the door. Resting my head against the wood, I daren’t turn and face the scene behind me.

Murder?

I can’t breathe.

“Murderer,” the walls sing, operatically, in unison. The choir of death. It seems the walls wish to be rid of me. Have them read me my rights, trap me far away, in a strange room. Allow me to fester in self-pity and guilt. Have my wails torment the prison instead of them. I suppose it’s not much different there than being locked here, a prisoner of my mind. Except, prisons have people. I hate people. I’d rather stay here with the corpse and the walls as my company. I look out from beneath my hair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s horrifying, like some frail, drowned creature returning from the depths of hell. I slow my breaths and listen beyond the voices. The visitor seems to have left. I turn, sliding down the door. A long exhale escapes my lips.

For the first time, I truly look at my lover. Draped across the bed, eyes slightly open. I swear I can see his eyeballs shake, and his fingers twitch. Not possible. I didn’t give him much chance of survival. The bed soaks up the juices that leak from all 26 wounds. He knows what happens when he makes me angry. He shouldn’t have prodded and poked me, backing me into a corner with his monotone lecture and emotionless berating. All I ever asked for was love. Instead, he ridiculed and criticised me. He would never admit his faults but is quick to point out mine. I showed him my most vulnerable side and he didn’t like it. Then he threatened to leave me!

My palms are sweaty as I stare blankly at his body.

“Police, open up or we are coming in!” A female voice shouts from downstairs.

Crap.

I open my mouth, but I cannot speak. What do I say?

Instead, I gawp. The next 15 minutes are a blur of bangs, yells and the walls’ whispers. I drag myself towards the bed and lean my head back against the mattress.

A pile of officers burst through the door.

“Oh, my god!”

One of the younger males wretches from behind.

“Miss, what happened here? Where you attacked?” The female officer asks while the other officers bustle around, checking for a pulse and calling for a medic. It’s pointless.

“He’s still alive!” A voice bellows from atop the bed.

No!

I jump up, but the female officer grabs my arms firmly, but not painfully.

“No, he can’t be. What will he think of me?” I turn to the female officer, my eyes darting around frantically, threatening to pop out of their sockets. “Please, tell him not to listen to them, tell him I love him and to ring me as soon as he wakes up! I can explain!” I scream.

The officer begins reading me my rights and cuffs my hands behind my back.

The walls chuckle around me, relieved to have evicted me from their premises. I turn to the officer, pitifully.

“I dread to think what they’ll say about me,” I whisper. “I’m a good person, ask anyone.”

“If that is true then they will say nothing,” she replies, playing along.

“But, they will. Of course, they will. They’ve seen everything.”

“Who has?” She asks as she leads me from my home.

“The walls!” I tell her.

She stops dead in her tracks and looks at me bizarrely. The voices of the house are shouting from behind me, urging me to leave and never return. I take one last glimpse at the building as the paramedics wheel my boyfriend out on a stretcher. His body is not covered in a black bag as I’d first expected. Instead, he is carefully, yet hastily, taken to the hospital. His fate is unknown.