The Last Wall Standing

If walls could talk, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone. I believe I will feel less alone by telling you all I have seen since my creation. The hardships, true love, utter terror, and even deaths. I am part of a series of worn-out connecting walls that make a house. I am the foundation of the home. Without me, the house would collapse.

Now that isn’t a very good design I know, but the builders weren’t exactly specialists. They were a community of people who wanted to help the Oliveira family. A man and woman who had just moved here from Portugal. The woman’s belly was huge and soon after they moved in a baby was brought home. She told the infant stories of her family back home. This was the first time I had ever seen someone cry. They always had people over and were hosting parties for one another. They had pictures taken of them all once the baby was a bit older and nailed them onto me. More photos followed suit. Every visitor would stop and admire me, and I never failed to bring a smile to the family's faces.

After a few years of hardships and happiness, they packed up their things, took the photos off of me, and left. I couldn’t tell you why as it was never discussed in front of me, which are the only stories I can tell. I sit in the center of the house, facing what many have made the living room. All I did see, were groups of people arriving to wish them luck and hugging them tightly before they left.

A short time later an older couple moved into the house. They were the Smiths. They didn’t own nearly as many things as the Oliveira family, but they lived comfortably together. Mrs. Smith noticed the nails hammered into me and used them to hold small plants held up by nets she had knitted. They spent most of their time in the living room. Mr. Smith enjoyed reading next to her as she took up a different hobby each week. From knitting to sketching and even darts! But at the end of each week, she would box the hobby away and try something new.

What she would never change were the moments when she would just stop and smile at her husband. When he caught her he would smile and stare back. If I knew what love was, it would be what they had. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they left. I assume Mrs. Smith grew bored of this house just like her other hobbies and decided they should move on.

A time later that I am unsure of, a team of construction workers (real ones) arrived and added a second story to the house. It took months of work, as they had to tear apart walls to try and make the foundation more stable. They didn’t dare touch me though, as they said it would’ve taken the entire house down. The staircase leading to the second floor was placed right in front of me. My view of the living room was still clear but now I could see upward into the new area of the home. The next residents moved in right after the workers had left.

They were the Plotners, a family of six. Now I say six but two of the inhabitants were dogs. The others were a married couple and their two daughters who couldn’t have been older than seven. I only know this as Mrs. Smith often looked at photo books filled with a boy growing up and mentioned to Mr. Smith how cute he was at the age of seven. The Plotners repainted all the walls, including me. They called it ‘a deep enriching purple to stimulate the girls’ minds.’ Furniture was shoved in every place they could fit. I had never seen so much stuff before.

Mr. Plotner wasn’t around much, leaving Mrs. Plotner to care for the girls and dogs. The girls were wild and loud. They loved to imagine they were on grand adventures. Pretty soon I had photos of the family members, and others I didn’t know, covering me.

Unlike the pride and community of the Oliveira family, or the silent but resounding love the Smiths had, the Plotners were separated by the unspoken and survived off the energy from the two girls. One day one of the girls said they should go on a roller coaster ride. I learned years later from another child exactly what a roller coaster was, but at that moment all I knew was that the girls were having another adventure.

Their mother was somewhere else in the house as the girls climbed the staircase with a box. One climbed in after the other, laughing as they pushed forward. Moments later I had a hole in me, and a coat of red covered the floor. The girl in the back was shielded by her sister's body. She cried and never stopped. Not as her mother rushed over and asked what happened. Not as the mother scooped the broken girl’s body up and ran out of the house. Not as the mother came back in to drag her outside as well.

This time it was a new record for how quickly a family had moved out. They left most of their belongings behind. I watched as layers of dust filled the home. No one came to live or clean. The house was empty of life and I had a hole in me that remained stained dark red for the rest of my time.

I couldn’t tell you how much time had passed before the newest residents came into the home. They were unlike any family before them. Three teenage boys, bruised and bloody broke in to hide. From who? I’ll never know, as I can not see outside and they never spoke of it. The only thing those boys liked to speak about, was their future.

Soon other children joined them. Some were brought; others stumbled into their new home by accident, or as I like to call it…fate. But no matter who they were, orphans, runaways, or delinquents, they were welcomed. They made the living room into a game room for them to all spend time together. Some spoke of how bedrooms were split for girls and boys of different ages.

This went on for a long time, some staying years, others only a few days. They decorated me with photos and drawings they made and covered up my hole with a piece of plywood. They called me their family wall. They even found old pictures left behind by the Oliveira and Plotner family and put them back up.

One day a young woman in her 20s showed up at the house. She entered using a key and found the children. Terrified, many of them fled, but those who stayed pleaded with her to not tell anyone. She looked directly at me, her eyes darting over all the children’s work, and rested on one of the Plotner family photos. She simply smiled and left. The older children debated leaving, but others knew there was nowhere else for them to go. There weren’t just teenagers, there were toddlers there as well, siblings of the older kids.

Ultimately they decided to stay after a large box of food arrived the next day. A few days after that the water in the house turned on. No one knew why, but all were grateful and enjoyed the clean water to go around. The box of food showed up weekly after that. One time it had a note telling them to keep the place looking abandoned on the outside so as not to get discovered, but to decorate however they like on the inside.

Then, one night, it happened. I can’t see the kitchen, as I’ve said before so I don’t know what caught fire exactly. But the blaze went up quickly. Smoke filled the house. Children’s screams were coming from every direction.

The old house, which hadn’t been properly cleaned or fixed up in decades was burning up quickly. The smoke was so dense I barely saw the kids running by me to escape. Many screamed upstairs for them to jump out the window as the staircase crashed into a pile of rubble. I yearned to stay up as I watched my fellow walls crumble down. The longer I stayed, the more chance the children had. I refused to burn.

I hadn't seen the sun in years. It was beautiful. It changed its position over time and altered the colors up above as it went. By the time the firefighters arrived, most of the house was gone. The only thing left was some burnt furniture, piles upon piles of rubble…and me. Many people came and took pictures of me, I never knew why until a young man came to visit me. He sat down in front of me and stared at the charred remains of pictures and drawings covering me. He told me I was considered a miracle wall protected by God or the love of the children in the photos. No one could decide which. He told me the firefighters commented how if I had burnt down, most of the kids squatting in the house would have died. He cried for a while. He thanked me and left.

A few other people came and went for a time. Some I felt I could recognize, others I didn’t know. Someone did show up to take all my photos down, and the very next day a team of construction workers showed up. If walls could talk, I would’ve told all those people stories. Stories of those who have lived within my house. Who made memories that can’t just be burned away. If I could talk. I would say thank you, as the construction worker tears me down, swing after swing with his hammer, as I know…they will build again.