If Walls Could Talk...

If walls could talk, we would have sheltered the boy. We remember the day he first came home, everything seemed livelier, louder. He was so small, and sickly both his parents and the doctors that came to visit were concerned. We did our best to protect him from the elements, keep the cold out, and the warm in. We remember the first time he fell ill and disappeared for days. His mother sat on the floor pressed against us sobbing. We did our best to calm her.

He came home recovered from whatever ailment it had been, a calm settled in. We watched him grow, his age and height marked against us. We stood and watched as he clambered onto a bus for the first time, excited for what the future held. We stood and watched helplessly as his father began to drink. He was gone most nights and slept all day. The boy would come home, be let in, and father would disappear back into the bedroom.

We watched, in horror, the first time he tried to rouse his father from slumber. “Dad, I’m hungry,” he poked at his father. Slap. “Go fucking find something yourself. I need to sleep!” He barked. “Please dad. I can’t find anything.” We watched helplessly as his father lay into the child, wanted nothing more than to wrap around him protectively as he lay against his bedroom door, his only defense, as he lay there repeating, “Mom, please come home. Dad’s going to kill me.”

We watched as the poor child repeatedly fell victim to his father’s ire. One summer day he was dragged through the front door by his hair and hit repeatedly with a leather belt father had hung from us. We felt like an accomplice for allowing him to hang his weapon from us. We watched in disbelief as his mother watched wordlessly, never stepping in. The child learned very quickly to stay quiet, but it was still not enough. Father was always angry, and he the only target.

He was excited the day his brother came home. He had a forever friend, a partner in crime, and was immediately protective of him, more protective than he had ever been of himself. The dynamic shifted, visiting family seemed less concerned for the boy, mother wouldn’t even be around when father punished him for whatever little transgression he had caused. The boy retreated within himself, found solace in videogames and writing fantastical stories, even at the age of six.

It didn’t take very long for father to expand his sights to the younger child. We remember distinctly the first time the child threw himself between his father and younger brother resulting in a split lip and a black eye. We watched in terror as he scooped up his brother, ran to their room bracing himself against the door, denying their father access, and sheltering his brother from the fury he had fallen victim to so many times before.

Father came home less often, and mother seldom moved from her room. The boy, no more than ten, was left to care for himself, and his brother. He learned to cook, and helped his sibling bathe, packed lunches and made sure they went to bed on time.

The only attempt mother ever made was on birthdays. She hung streamers and balloons from us, filled the house with guests, and put on the greatest of shows. None of this was for the poor boys. It was at one of these parties where father came home angry and drunk, drunker than we had ever seen him. A cacophony of yelling and swearing bounced off us, things were thrown, people bolted, the boys sat in a bathroom, weeping. A birthday utterly ruined, the last birthday we were ever dressed up for.

Father emptied drawers and closets, slamming doors against us, throwing things to the floor, cramming the rest into garbage bags. “Start crying. Beg him to stay,” mother pleaded with the boy. In truth, he had never been more elated. “I don’t want to. I want him to leave.” She slapped him. Once, twice. Over and over until he started sobbing. “You’re making the kids cry! They don’t want you to leave!” “I don’t fucking care what the kids want!” He stormed out, slamming the door, and shaking us to the foundation.

So began the menagerie of strangers that entered and exited on a whim. Friends, dates, extended family came and went as they pleased. The boys fell by the wayside. We watched them grow silent, sad, broken. The older one did what he could to protect the younger. Father would show up occasionally, and the boys would disappear for a day or two, and return looking sadder, concealing bruises. They didn’t have to, mother paid them no mind. She began acting erratic flinging the pictures that were mounted to us across the room, sending the boys to relatives more than usual. We watched as she took too many pills and stumble to the front door. They were all gone for days.

The boys were first to come back carrying flowers and a bear. Mother returned looking dazed, as if she had not slept in days, hospital bracelets still strapped to her wrist. She didn’t pay the children any mind, didn’t thank them for their gifts. "How could you?! What were you going to do, disappear and leave us with him?!" Despite the fact they stood eye to eye, mother stared blankly at her oldest child and shuffled toward her room, slamming the door behind her. We wanted nothing more than to bend ourselves, crack our foundations, and cradle the children. The boy, now a teen, made dinner for his brother, and breakfast, and lunch. Mother barely left her room.

Life carried on like this. We watched desiring only to help. Mother slowly returned to herself, laser focused on finding new love. The younger child cried for her nightly. The teen did his best to soothe him to give him a sense of normalcy. Their grandparents stepped in, babysat almost nightly, and scolded their daughter for not watching her children. During one particularly bad episode for the younger child the parents did all they could to stop her from leaving. “Just stay home! He needs you!” The teen had long ago accepted he would have to take care of himself. “I’m not wasting my life for him! Why do I have to put MY LIFE on hold?!” She slammed the door. The teen knew their mother didn’t care about them. He sat in a corner and whispered so quietly that only we could hear, “I’ll never be like them. I’ll do everything I can to be better,”

The children packed their things. They left with their grandparents. Mother returned to an empty home in the arms of a stranger, and then another, and another. She never seemed to notice the children were gone. She stopped coming home. The grandparents grabbed the last of the children’s belongings. We never saw them again.

I’m sure not every set of walls would tell you a story of woe. We too, have happier tales to tell. Just know if walls could talk, we’d help, we’d protect, and sometimes, we’d cry.