If Walls Could Speak...
by Krystyn Poe
There have been many times when I’ve wished that I didn’t have to be a silent spectator, when I’ve wished to leap from beyond my plaster boundaries and intervene in the events of the living, or even just be able to speak. Yes, the ability to speak would be enough. Either that or I would wish to be blind and deaf, to have no knowledge of what goes on inside of me. Then I wouldn’t have to mourn and weep silently with the rest of them. Instead, I could’ve stopped this tragedy from occurring and saved her life, but no. I’m trapped in a man-made cage of vision and sound with no way to help anyone if I so choose.
I feel so empty now. All of the posters and decorations that once hung joyfully from my appendages have been stripped away, leaving me cold, bare, and white. All of the clutter that life had put in me is now packed neatly into large and small brown boxes, ready to be shipped off to new owners, owners who will hopefully treasure these things as much as their former owner once did. Memories can be powerful things, and I hope that her memory stays just as strong, if not stronger, than their others do.
Oh why was I cursed with this existence? Why couldn’t I have been human? Why couldn’t I have been anything that would’ve helped her stay alive?
I can still remember her smile…faintly. The past few months her smiles had been getting rarer and rarer every day. The music she played slowly grew darker and darker, yet somehow still retaining a lovely undertone that marked her as one of the greats. Her poetry used to be light and sweet, but then it was as if the clouds covered up the sun her muse used to bring, leaving her feeling alone and empty. And then, when the music and poetry couldn’t take away her woes, she…
Oh how I wish I was alive! Then I could’ve shown her all the people who cared; the people who were just a phone call away, the people who loved her. Her friends. I can remember how she would smile when they called and laughed when they were around…how could she feel alone with people like them to talk to? They understood her, she trusted them! She didn’t trust anyone but them. And yet, for some reason, she didn’t reach out to them when she needed them the most, and distance left them oblivious to the signs of her deep depression.
The blood has been cleaned up more or less now, and the crime scene tape is long gone. The horrified looks and screaming cries may physically be gone, but their expressions and tears will stain me always, like the blood she left on my walls. This tragedy will haunt me, and all others who pass through me, from now until the day that I am torn down and thrown into a dump in tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
Such is the curse of the inanimate object.
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