The Silent Accomplice

If walls could talk, what would they say? I would imagine some might tell you about a lover’s spat they witnessed that went on for hours, resulting in a young woman crying, and a very disheveled man running out the door like the house was on fire.

A whitewashed wall, full of many frames displaying entire families and their happiest moments, might ramble for ages about lost teeth, Christmas parties, and sad goodbyes.

Their stories hold a permanence of sorts which my existence does not, ever changing as the seasons do before me. I do not get to share in warm, dry, private moments. Where one wall displays photos of one family, I support many of them. That is my job on this busy street of apartment buildings and little shops. The shop keeper next door constantly pastes flyers over me, blocking my view of the walkway. There is a bus stop in front of me and every half hour I watch the comings and goings of children on their way to school, or the young men heading into the car plant just outside of town.

On the rainier days, those passengers lean against me on tired feet and with drowsy eyes. Years had past since my construction and routine seldom changes on this busy street. Children graduate and new children take their place on the bus. Families are always moving in, while others are moving out. What always surprises me, is their instant camaraderie with others on the street. This one thing moves me like very little does.

The last bus of the night always releases a few stragglers onto the street now lit up by the lamp posts. It makes their shadows appear ominous, even to themselves.

I always bid these stragglers goodnight as they rush to their warm and cozy walls. I stand watch way past the setting of the deepest darkness, waiting for the violent rays of morning to engulf the empty road. Each day displays the permanency in my role, although not cozy or warm, there is a strength and steadfastness that gives everyone residing in and around great comfort.

That changed this one humid summer night in the city. The street had quieted hours before with only the steady hum of the air conditioning units to accompany me. Lamp posts are on while the lights in the building across the street are, one by one, turned off for the night. The rattling of the last bus stirs me to consciousness as I observe one lonely straggler step out of the vehicle.

A middle-aged woman I recognize as living in the neighbourhood somewhere, appears tired from what perhaps was a very long day. She dawns an apron uniform, the string hanging loosely behind her. She holds her purse tightly in one arm, and a paper bag full of bread loaves, most certainly for her family.

She walks to a nearby bench to adjust the loads in her arms. She sets the bag down on the bench while she rummages for something in her purse. A new smell appears in the air, one smelling of tobacco and sweat. A small light appears from the end of a lit cigarette from a tall dark shadow standing next to me. The figure is also watching the woman, as he puffs from his cigarette. The woman looks up from her purse and tenses before quickly grabbing her bag of bread off the bench while moving to hurry away. The large figure, who upon closer inspection is a man, lunges for her before she can run away, and pulls her towards him.

I wish I had eyes to close, a breath to hold, ears to grip or a voice to scream. What I have is a steadfastness and strong sense of duty, so I did not move, even as the woman’s screams echo into the night. Again and again, the man attempts to wrap her apron string around her neck, and again she fights with teeth and nails, but he shows no clemency this night.

With a sense of desperation, I look across the road to see that the lights have come on in most of the apartments and many have gathered at their windows to see the commotion. No one rushes downstairs or moves to help although some shout down, while others are holding their phones. And yet no one moves, still as statues, still as bricks on a wall.

The screams stop abruptly, and all goes quiet, except for the panting breath of exhaustion coming from the tall man, now standing directly under a lamp post, casting his shadow over the woman’s lifeless body. He looks up to finally notice the audience above, which stirs him to slowly retreat into the shadows. Before he leaves, he stops to lean against me, and I feel as he lays a calloused bloody hand on me for support. I provide it, before I watch him dart off into a darkened alley. The woman remains under the lamp post, and I guard her, diligently, immovable until finally those who did not move, now choose to do so.