In These Walls

If walls could talk... but we can't.

***

In this two-room apartment, I could see everything that happened. Not much happened without me knowing about it. And much happened within these walls. That, I can guarantee you. I had entertained many lodgers. Some were mysterious and others were boring, but all had secrets that they brought or took with them. At the core, they were fundamentally the same: clueless.

But this one, this one was different. She knew something… about me. And I didn’t like it.

I liked Melissa, though. She was the first one who came to me, and she stayed for years. In fact, she moved in right when this building opened. It was smacking new on the street. I could see out of the big, adjacent window in the living room, the one that opened to the morning sun day after day, allowing its rays to shine through the window providing warmth even when it was neither needed nor welcomed. But out that window, when the building first opened, passersby would stop and look up. I could see the eyes of each curious man, woman, and child. Sometimes they would point, and I would shudder at the thought of being seen from outside. But they would move on just as quickly as they had stopped.

This building had been grand then. It felt like opportunities would open. It was in the smell of the fresh metallic paint. It was seen in the elaborate trim that outlined the walls. It was felt in the smoothness of the well-sanded wood. It was everywhere, that feeling of greatness. It consumed your senses. But now, it was nothing but a building on a street with other buildings, some better kept than others.

And yet, when this building had been grand and all new and smart looking on this street, Melissa came to me. She went by Missy – that’s what her friends would call her, but I preferred Melissa. She was delightful, at first. She placed the most interesting objects in the living room. An over-sized vase in which she would regularly place fresh yellow and red flowers. On the opposite wall, there was a large, bright painting of a woman’s body – long, wispy strokes – and I always wondered if Melissa had painted it. Melissa was extravagant. I would stare at that painting for long hours when Melissa would leave, and I waited for her to return.

In the bedroom, her bed was full of pillows – bright yellow, green, orange, and blue pillows. Like I said, she was extravagant. Everything was bright and big. At night, these pillows would all end up on the floor. She would kick at them when she got up out of bed, annoyed but she would soon toss them back on the bed, making it all pretty again.

She had also placed a long mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Each morning, rather late in the morning, she would switch outfits, and stare into that mirror. I watched her, wondering what she saw when she looked in the mirror. She would routinely flip her long, brown hair over her shoulder and shift her weight from one hip to the other until she decided on an outfit. As she left the bedroom, I’d turn around, and there’d she be looking out that big window that itself looked out onto the street below. We were on the top floor, and that always made me feel a bit proud. I think it made Melissa proud, too.

But in these walls, pride gets you nowhere.

Melissa would stare out the window for long stretches of time until the phone would ring. She would literally run to it even though it was five steps away. A smile would cross her face and before long, just as the sun would slip over to the other side of the building, she would grab an umbrella, a jacket, a scarf, or nothing at all but her purse, click off the light, and leave me in darkness. I would wait. Shadows would creep up alongside me, coming in mostly from the street window. I was alone.

Until one night, she brought him back. I’d never seen his face before, and I didn’t like it.

For the first time ever, though, I got to feel her skin – and I guess it was thanks to him. Her buttocks smashed violently against me, and I wanted to wrap myself around her, but he interfered. I saw his eyes, something steamy dark in those eyes. Possessed-like. She turned around, her breasts hard against me. Her cheek pressed against me, so close I felt her hot breath melt into me. There was something like fear and lust lingering in her wine-soaked breath. She slapped one hand against me and rubbed me slightly. It was tantalizing but short-lived. She backed away from me as the man tore off her skirt, letting it fall to the floor, where it would remain balled up when the sun would shine through the window in the morning.

They came on the other side of me. I turned quickly to see the pillows fall to the ground like they did so many nights before. Except one.

When morning broke, the man was gone. I saw him leave in the late night. Melissa was there on the bed. A single pillow on her head. Naked. Unmoving.

For days, she lay there like that. The decay started slow but picked up fast. The stench bore into me, awakened something in me. I don’t know if it was anger or what, but I saw these two rooms differently from that moment on. Even after a week went by and people – screeching, alarmed people – found her body, removed her body, removed all her items, and scrubbed the room clean, I could still smell her end.

***

There would be many more lodgers after Melissa, but I was alone for weeks, months, maybe a year before the next lodgers came. This time, it was a young couple. Her name was Nikita, and his name was Frederick. Large names for such small people. They kept the walls bare, which I didn’t like. It made me feel naked in front of them. All day and night, there I was exposed. But they didn’t seem to care. They were so into themselves to ever see me there.

Then one morning, Nikita came home. She disappeared into the bathroom, and then re-emerged holding a stick and staring at it. She was smiling and then crying. She straightened herself up, and tossed together a salad, singing the whole time. She then went over to the window and waited until suddenly, she popped up, turned on some light music, which I rather like – instrumental, like the cello, and stood waiting for Frederick.

When he opened the door, he immediately noticed dinner made, the music on, the smile she wore. He hung up his coat and walked over to her, hugging her like he always did. I could hear his whisper, “What is all of this, babe?” It left me feeling a little irritated, and I’m not sure why.

Then Nikita withdrew the stick-like thing from her pocket. He stared at it, “Does this mean?” That’s all he said, and so I had no idea what was in store for me, for us. But I watched with bewilderment as he picked her up and kissed her over and over again. It made me reminisce of Melissa and her skin and breath on me. I longed for that. To feel life like that again.

But like I said, Nikita and Frederick ignored me. They ate their salad, excited, and talked of the future. How they would save money, and how they would leave me. I can tell you honestly that I didn’t mind them leaving. They weren’t great company to me.

For several months, I watched as Nikita woke up in the middle of the night and in the early morning hours. She would take long naps in the afternoon. She would hide from me in the bathroom, and I could hear her coughing or vomiting or crying. Frederick was barely there. He worked late in the evening. As Nikita’s belly grew, they barely touched in their bed. He would kiss her in the morning, to be sure. He would caress her belly and even kiss it, too. But their liveliness was missing, absent.

Then one day they left with a suitcase in hand and returned a few days later with a little one wrapped in their arms. A tiny little thing that cried at all times of the day and night. They kept it wrapped so tight that I could barely get a glimpse of it, and I sometimes wondered if that was the reason it cried so much. Nikita was there with a bottle or breast, always. This little one would suck up milk until satisfied and then fall asleep. Cute little thing. It slept well for however little time it slept, in a small crib off to the side of the bed.

Frederick no longer slept in the bedroom though. He’d come back late and sit on the couch to eat and fall asleep in his clothes. He’d tell Nikita he did it so he wouldn’t disturb her and the baby. But sometimes as he slept, he pressed a pillow against his head. And here, again, I would think of Melissa.

On a random morning, Frederick would wake to the little one’s cries, go into the room, and take the baby from Nikita’s arms. His smile would be large and wide, and he would magically pull out a stuffed animal and wiggle it in front of the baby’s face. It was on those days, you’d have hope. Nikita would wake, feeling a bit refreshed. She’d come out into the living room area and sit with Frederick and the little one. The little one would look up and smile, even giggle, and they would all smile… even giggle. And then Nikita or Frederick would place the new stuffed animal in the crib so that the little one could sleep snug and warm. The crib was increasingly being stuffed with those animals.

As the little one started to grow, she’d pull at the stuffed animals, and it would entertain her momentarily. Soon, when out of the crib, the baby learned to be on all fours, quick and smart. As the baby dabbled in crawling, Nikita carried on with housework. When the baby cried, Nikita would change the diaper, feed her, and try to get her to sleep. Sometimes the baby just wailed though, for no apparent reason. Sometimes, Nikita did the same. She always wiped the tears away before Frederick walked into the room, though.

One day, he walked in the room and didn’t notice Nikita in the kitchen warming up a bottle of milk, but he saw his little one on all fours picking at something or playing with something. He went closer and saw it was a beetle. He snapped and yelled at Nikita, reprimanding her for not paying attention. In disgust, he picked pick up the little one, kissed her like he was her savior, and then set her back down on the floor. He mumbled something to Nikita before he walked out the door.

Now, with the little one roaming the living room floor all the time, Frederick would eat and then go into the bedroom where he’d fall asleep. Nikita would wash the dishes, change the little one’s diaper, bathe the little one, clean up the toys from the floor, soothe the little one’s cries, feed the little one, and then fall asleep with the little one on the couch only to wake every few hours to the little one’s cries.

This two-bedroom apartment was getting smaller and smaller. Even for me.

Nikita told Frederick as much, but he shrugged and walked out the door – his answer to everything. He didn’t return until late that evening. She yelled at him. He yelled back. The little one, in the crib, woke up and began to cry. He said something under his breath, something I couldn’t hear, and then I felt sharp things stab me.

“Look what you did!” He screamed at her. Nikita fell to the ground crying.

Silence fell upon the room like darkness, but not darkness brought on by night. He walked over to her, and with a gentle hand on her shoulder, he apologized. He picked up the baby as Nikita cleaned up the shards of glass.

The next day, Frederick left as usual. A cloud hung low outside, further darkening the room – maybe there was rain in the forecast. Nikita opened the window just enough to let a breeze filter in and air out the room.

The little one was not yet able to stand and reach the window, so there was no threat there. Nikita glanced longingly at the child and then went into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out a jug of milk. She poured some into a bottle, which she placed in water on the stove. While she waited for the milk to heat, she began washing the dishes.

The little one was on the floor. It was crawling along the couch when it looked up, straight at me, like she was fascinated. That’s when I saw her eyes. So blue and clear and wide. A soft yellow curl bounced on her head.

A gentle creak ran up my spine, and I think she heard. She crawled toward me. Its little hands were upon me, and unlike Melissa, her breath was sweet yet sour, soft not quick and thick. Little fingers, tickling me. I was delighted.

But it crawled away, rather quickly, almost frightened, wiggling its nose only to begin paying attention to a toy on the floor – a toy with little beads or balls inside of it that rattled when shook. Nikita came over with the bottle, picked her up, and brought her into the bedroom and gently laid her down in the crib. I turned around and watched. The sweet thing was greedy as she drank the milk.

Nikita closed the door, leaving the slightest crack to hear her wake.

The baby slept well, and Nikita took the opportunity to clean and cook, which she did. She was even humming to herself.

Frederick came home, and I heard them whispering. He hadn’t found a suitable place, but he would look tomorrow. They ate. Frederick then walked into the bedroom and watched the baby sleep. So, sound asleep, almost too sound as in no sound. Frederick didn’t notice as he leaned over the crib and watched. He then slid onto the edge of the bed. Nikita came in and sat beside him. They held hands, and she placed her head on his shoulder as they both looked at the sleeping baby.

Darkness fell upon the room, but they again mistook it for night. Frederick took his hand from Nikita and ran it down her back to pull her closer. With the other hand, he began to rub her leg, as he gently pushed her down onto the bed.

Then they stopped. Nikita withdrew, “I’m tired.”

Frederick abruptly stood up, unintentionally hitting the crib. The baby woke up, wailing with hands flailing in the air. The bottle with milk was drip-dripping onto the crib mattress, onto the stuffed toys, and moistening the side of the baby’s cheek.

Frederick shushed the baby, but it only cried more. Nikita said, “Leave it. I’ll get her.” And so, he did, and I watched him walk out the door. He came back late, his hair disheveled. When Nikita asked him where he had been, he only muttered. She didn’t dare inquire more.

The days went on as if nothing had happened. The baby was crawling more and more. It found its way to me again, and I wanted to reach out and pet her like a dog or cat or something. It used me to learn to get on one knee. It pressed her little hands and cheek against me and pushed herself up. I felt the softness of her belly only momentarily, at which point she lost her balance and toppled over.

But she was sharp and resilient. I caught Nikita watching her, and then this happened: “Emmy, you silly girl.”

Emmy, I said to myself. Emmy. A name fitting for such a cute little girl.

That night, Nikita waited for Frederick. That night, Emmy fell asleep in the crib with a stream of milk dried up on her cheek. That night, Nikita grew frustrated and laid down in the bed. She was crying softly. Emmy was sound asleep. Frederick was not yet home.

That morning, Nikita woke up to a scream she had not heard ever before. Frederick was holding Emmy in his hands, and Emmy was not moving.

Nikita stared, taking a moment to digest what was happening. Slowly, she crawled on the bed toward Frederick. He backed away from her, “Our Emmy. Our Emmy!”

Nikita, like in slow motion, jumped out of bed, grabbed Emmy and shrieked, “What did you do? What did you do? My baby! My baby!”

She wailed so loud it sent a shiver down my spine. A shriek so loud, it silenced everything else. A shriek so loud, a small crack appeared along the wall, unsettling the foundations of this grand building.

***

From that moment on, things like this happened. A new lodger or two, and then none. Another one, and then none. Eventually, after months of no visits and loneliness breaking my heart and creating a hole from the inside out, two women arrived. They were dressed to impress in their dresses and expensive perfume.

The younger woman leaned up against me and used the word “cursed.” She asked, “How on earth will she ever rent this place out again?” Then she touched me, “If these walls could talk, what would they say?”

“I’ll rent it.” This other woman, this different one said, “I will rent it.” As she said it, she looked straight at me, and it made me tremble.

***

The first night there, I hid from her. She had brought nothing with her and kept the room empty. She walked around the room, feeling things that weren’t there. She was sniffing the air and fingering every nook and cranny. Late in the evening, she placed a circle of candles on the floor beside me. She murmured and sang and talked to me. I ignored her. But there was a tremble I could not shake.

The second night, she did the same. And the tremble grew.

On the third night, she had disappeared through the door and was gone for some time. Late in the evening, she returned. someone else with her. In fact, she had several people with her. I knew some of them. They were older now, maybe one was Nikita. I stared at her. Her face was changed, hard and long. It had to be Nikita. But where was Frederick? He was not there.

On that third night, these people sat in a circle. The flames of the lit candles rose high. This other one spoke and prayed and talked. I felt my insides begin to twirl and shake.

This woman was pulling me, dragging me out of my wall. The smoke clogged my senses as I fought.

And then I realized she was not here for me.

But she would not take what I had earned.

They had come to me, willingly. In these walls, they were alive.

In these walls, we had a voice.

Deep into the night the sat and sang and entranced my fellow companions. And I realized she was there to suck the life out of me.

She stood. She breathed. Then she blew. The flames flickered and went. Darkness fell. And in that darkness they trickled out. Leaving me, empty. Leaving me, alone.

And I cried. In these walls, I would not leave. Within this wall, I would continue.