When I was very little, my walls used to talk to me. They’d coo and giggle in a thousand different voices at once, an amalgamation of sounds and hollers.
They cared for me when I cried. When I’d hide in my room after my mom would insist that I’m her problem, striking me with whatever she could reach, they’d be there for me.
“Sweet baby girl,” they’d say, some voices trailing off and some only able to make a gentle gurgling sound.
I listened to them breathe a gentle breeze—and I could feel it on my skin, too. It would always give me goosebumps on my skin and make me have to pull up a blanket, but I always loved the sound of it. As I closed my eyes, I could always swear I saw my room pulsing like a beating heart.
When I turned eight, my walls started to be more lively. I’d come home from school and they’d help me with my homework; they’d teach me what I never understood better than my teachers ever could have. After every problem I got right, they’d always cheer me on.
“That’s it!” they’d encourage, “You’re getting it!”
One particular day stands out to me the most out of that entire year. I came home with my eye swollen shut. My mom took me home and dropped me into my room without a word, but my walls screamed for their baby once she left. That day, I cried on my bed for hours.
“No! My baby!” I heard them weep. I could even feel gentle teardrops like a soft drizzle in my own bedroom. They were sad for me, and I got sad for making them upset. I apologized before I buried my head in my pillow; when I started falling asleep, I felt a hand slowly rubbing and patting my back, accompanied by a thousand soft ‘It’s okay.’s.
When I came home from school on my thirteenth birthday, I saw a cake sitting on my bed. I still remember exactly how it looked. It was a chocolate cake covered in light purple buttercream icing, three lit candles, and the words “hAppY birThdAY bAbY doLL” written haphazardly across the top. I never asked where it came from—I just sat on my bed with my walls and ate my cake.
They’d listen to my problems and my rants and the gossip I’d come home with, and they’d go “mhmm” to signal that they’re listening. They’d respond like we’re best friends—which we were—and laugh with me when I was happy. We’d spend every day together (although it’s not like I really had a choice.) They were my alarm clock and my lullabies, and everything in between.
Some years, I’d get them Christmas presents. I’d buy pretty paintings and tapestries and wreaths and lights to string up on them like crowns. I’d dress them up with them, all ornate and beautiful, just to make them feel pretty. I’d burn candles that smell like pine and leave them there while I’m at school during the winter months, and when I’d return home I’d find the candle had been put out soon after I had left.
“Safety, little girl,” they’d say.
One day, I brought home a boy. My walls were quiet that day. I could still feel them with me; I could still hear the very quiet breaths they took, but they stayed silent just for me. When he left after kissing me goodbye in the morning, they came back.
“Ooh, a new man?” they swooned. “Who was that?”
“His name is John,” I sighed, “but I don’t think he’s right for me. He—“ I stuttered, stammering my words and hesitating my movement.
“Go on, sugar.”
“He hurt me. Just like mom.”
They consoled me as I sat there contemplating breaking up with my first boyfriend of two months. They patted my back and I cried into my pillows, crushed that my first boyfriend was a bitter, tragic, violent man. I got used to them patting my back after a while. I never once saw what they used to pat my back, whether it’s a drywall hand or if it was a ghost of some sort, but I knew that they had no bad intentions.
One day, I brought home a girl. Again, they were quiet. Again, when she left, they spoke once more.
“A lady?” they inquired.
“A lady.” I confirmed.
“We support you,” they reassured without me asking. I laid back and smiled, my cheeks burning hot and a gentle pink color, finally feeling satisfied with my life. I buried myself in the pillows on my bed, faced the wall, and spoke about her for hours.
They were the most supportive things in my life—more supportive than my own mother. Nowadays, I’m living far, far away from my first home. I’ve married that girl now, and we’ve been living peacefully and comfortably for years. We’ll be adopting a child soon, a baby to call our own and cherish the way I wasn’t by my parents.
Sometimes I wonder if the walls still talk in that house, or if they shut up once I left. I wonder if they miss me like I miss them. I wonder if they can hear my voice just like I hear theirs in my memories.
Sometimes when I fall asleep, I can hear little whispers.
“Sweet baby girl,” I’d hear, as I drift off to sleep.