Through the Wall

I'm not sure how it happened. But isn’t that how most things go? You don’t know something, but you're intrigued so you start doing it. Then after a while, you forget what made you want to do it in the first place and then by the end, you’ve forgotten most of what you did. All you have are the good memories and a few bad ones. Well, this is basically the same. Actually, it is the same. Exactly the same. So why am I questioning whether or not it is? I feel as though I have to begin explaining.

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It all started around three years ago, just after my father had passed. He was a good man but filled with spite. He hated his neighbours and his neighbours hated him. It was a mutual hatred. But, that didn’t stop my step-mother from inviting them over for dinner occasionally and hosting the odd Christmas or Thanksgiving meal. And because my father was such an honourable man, and didn’t like to display his distaste for his neighbours, he would allow this and chat heartily with them until they ate and left. And the neighbours were the same. As a child, it was very confusing. My sister and I would hear our father rant on about how awful the neighbours were, how their dogs kept shitting on our front garden or how they never properly tend to their lawn, only for him to then chat with them quite calmly and intelligently about the stock market or the latest trend in fashion. We never quite knew where we stood on the matter of the neighbours, but as we got older, we learned to not care as much. It just became another one of my father’s funny little quirks.

But yes, where this all began. Three years ago, my father died. Lots of tears. My sister was inconsolable and my step-mother didn’t speak to me for days. With the only two people in my life that I could have spoken to about his death no longer speaking to me, I was lost. My cosy apartment became claustrophobic, my warm bed became a cold sheet of steel and food didn’t seem to have any importance. I was locked away for days, scavenging around myself, trying to attach some form of normalcy to my new life. But it was far from that. I don’t know how long this went on. Could have been a few months, could have been a year. I didn’t bother to keep track. But, I remember the date I started hearing him. On the 14th of July, I started to hear his voice.

It was a late night, one that I remember was dark and cloudy, and I was, as always, alone in my bedroom. My TV was on with its volume turned down so low that I could barely hear it over my own breathing, which was raspy and deep. I don’t remember the film. It was probably whatever was on TV at the time. I was slowly chewing on something rough and bland. It was probably a mushroom from the patch that had been gradually growing through the carpet. Something had been spilt a while ago. That’s when it spoke.

“Omar.” The voice was soft and gentle. So gently, in fact, that I didn’t register it coming behind me. “Omar,” it said again. This time, I heard it. With what little strength I had, I leapt from my bed and fell to the floor, feeling my bones creak and click.

“Who’s there?” I said with a dry throat. The lights were off, the only light coming from the TV. The flickering beam of the TV created weird silhouettes, which I swear began to form a face. There was no reply to my words. I sat there for a long while, waiting for something else to happen, but nothing did. I pulled myself off the floor and sat back on my bed and continued watching the TV. The next night, the same thing happened.

“Omar.” Again, I jumped off my bed and fell to the floor. My reaction, however, was a little faster.

“Who’s there?” I demanded. “Where are you?”

​

“What are you doing?” the voice asked. I frowned at the wall and made myself more comfortable on the floor.

“What?” I muttered.

“What are you doing?” the voice repeated. I narrowed my eyes further and glared at the wall. It was definitely coming from the wall. The TV was off today and the lights were on. Whatever I had seen the previous day had been a hallucination. The wall was blank, with barely a paint scratch on it. On the other side was the outside world. There was no way for anyone to be in the wall. So the voice was coming from the wall itself.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I felt judged by the wall.

“It’s a Friday night,” the voice said. “You should be out partying or hanging out with your friends.” There was a pause. “You have got friends? Right?” The voice’s tone was soft and tender, like a parent to a child.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I've got friends.”

“Then why aren’t you with them?” I froze at this. It was a good question.

“Because they don’t need me?” I answered slowly. The voice didn’t seem convinced.

“And what makes you say that?” the voice continued. Slowly, my anger grew.

“Who are you to judge?” I spat. “You a fucking shrink or something. You don’t know me. You have no right to know anything about my life.”

“I think you’ll find I already know quite a bit,” the voice said. Its tone had remained smooth and calm, like the words I had said meant nothing to him. I sighed heavily and allowed myself to fall back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh yeah?” I muttered. “How’s that.”

“I just do.” I chuckled.

“Lazy answer,” I responded. “You just don’t want to say.” This time, the voice chuckled.

“If I tried to explain it,” it said, “it would take centuries.”

“I've got time,” I retorted. The voice laughed again.

“I like your determination,” it said. “Just like when you sat through your grandfather’s boring talk about the war just to find out how he came in possession of a vintage Nintendo games console.” My ears pricked at the mention of my grandfather. He had died when I was young, but, I remember that moment clearly. I was around the ages of 6 or 7 and we were visiting him on holiday in Spain. My parents were clearing through a few things when I caught sight of this old, grey machine at the back of the bottom shelf in his cupboard. I asked him about it and my grandfather spent the next seven hours talking to me. Apparently, according to my parents, I was glued to every word. Not that I listened to all of it. I think my brain only clicked in when he mentioned the grey machine. I hadn’t listened to a word about the fifteen men that died around him, but I looked as though each world was part of a new gospel.

“How do you know about that?” I asked, sitting up. The voice chuckled again, hearing the wariness in my voice.

“I told you,” it said confidently. “I know everything.” If I could see a face, I presumed it would be either winking or raising its eyebrows. I scoffed and fell back down.

“You're just in my head,” I said. “Some kind of hallucination from a lack of water or food or something.”

“Or, you are sane and just having a friendly chat,” the voice proposed. I laughed.

“If we’re having a friendly conversation, why can't I see you? And why aren’t you telling me what you are?” The voice laughed yet again. I was beginning to get sick of it.

“That’s not how this works,” it sighed. I exhaled and closed my eyes, determined to get some sleep. I thought, if I slept, maybe it would go away. “Very well,” the voice said, seemingly sensing me trying to sleep. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

“If I hallucinate you tomorrow, I'm leaving my apartment,” I said. The voice chuckled a final time before I felt sleep consume me. By that point, I hadn’t slept well at all. The recommended amount is 8 hours of sleep a night, I was getting 3.

I woke up the next day at around 11 am. I had fallen asleep at 6 pm. I had slept for 17 hours. I woke up feeling the best I had felt in a long time. I was quick to my feet and stepped into my shower, washing off the previous week's dirt. I then put on some fresh clothes and stood in my bedroom away, eyes staring warily at the wall. I waited a moment. Poised. Ready to hear the voice again.

“You waiting for me to speak?” the voice asked. I groaned and allowed my head to roll backwards.

“How?” I shouted. “I had a decent night’s sleep!”

“I told you,” it said. “I'm not a hallucination.”

“Then what are you?” I realised my mistake. “Nope. Never mind. You won't tell me.”

“You're catching on.” I growled at the wall and turned, looking into my kitchen. I could see a thin layer of mould stretching across its white marble countertops. How had I not noticed that before? Sighing, I moved to the cupboard I stored my cleaning supplies and whipped it open to reveal it begin empty. I sighed again.

“Something the matter?” the voice asked inquisitively.

“Nothing that should concern you,” I muttered back. I then closed the lid and glared at the wall. I could feel judgment. “I'm going to get stuff,” I said. “Be gone when I get back.” The voice laughed again and I gritted my teeth. Swiping my keys off a window sill, I stepped through my front door, slamming it hard. I had to let it know that I had left.

I wasn’t gone long. I simply walked down to the nearest major supermarket and grabbed a few basic cleaning products and some ready meals, despite the fact I had caught a glimpse of my microwave as I left the apartment and had seen the state it was in. But if I could clean it well enough, I could maybe eat. It was the first time I had left the house since my father’s funeral. The world looked different. It seemed brighter. His funeral was in December, and now it was sunny with bright blue skies and crisp, white clouds. Had I hidden myself away all through spring?

While walking back home, I steered myself through the park, despite my hand hurting from the weight of my shopping. I saw children rolling down hay fever-ridden grassy hills and couples strolling hand in hand. My mind instantly when to my father and step-mother. I wondered how she was. I reminded myself to call her when I got home. With my detour finished, I returned to the beaten track and walked back home.

The door swung open and the horrible stench that had been building there poured out. I coughed and spluttered as I walked in but left my door open. Hopefully, the smell would escape, but I felt bad for my neighbours. But not enough to close it. With the smell now less intense, I dropped my bags and started searching through them for the bag of cleaning wipes I had purchased. With them in hand, I began wiping down the white countertops. The muck came off instantly. Smiling slightly, I continued to wipe until all the wipes were gone. Once I was finished, and the wipes had been disposed of, I stared in amazement at my clean kitchen. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen it looking like this. But, as a looked at my accomplishment, the voice spoke again.

“It looks great, Omar,” it said. “Never seen it sparkle like that before.” I grunted and turned to it.

“I thought I told you to be gone,” I snarled. I could almost hear it shrug.

“I've told you,” it said. “That’s not how this works.” I narrowed my eyes at the wall and stepped closer to it.

“Then how does this work?” I asked. “Do I have to do a selfless act to get rid of you? Or are you here to warn me of some kind of evil force coming to destroy the world and I am the only one who can save us all.” A light chuckle emanated from the wall.

“No,” it said. “Nothing like that.” It sighed. “But if you want a comparison, I'm here to help your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Again, I heard it shrug.

“Because you seem like you need it.” I narrowed my eyes at the wall further and sighed, turning back to the kitchen and pulling out more cleaning supplies and quickly gave the microwave a wipe down. Then, I chose a ready meal from one of my bags and placed it inside, setting the timer for the right length and leaned against the counter as it began to spin.

“Whatcha got?” the voice asked. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

“Lasagne,” I said flatly. I didn’t want another conversation. By this point, strangely, I was already accustomed to talking to my wall, to this voice. I didn’t like it. In my mind, that meant I had already snapped.

“Sounds good,” the voice continued, not hearing the distaste in my tone. “Anything else with it?”

“Nah.”

“No veg.”

“Just lasagne.”

“Ok then.” It stopped and I was left with a quiet apartment, but I could still feel it in the room. Moments later, the microwave pinged and my food was ready. Quickly, I fetched it and placed it down, then realising I didn’t have any plates to place my food on. Taking a fork from a drawer and moving fast, I dashed into my bedroom and sat on my bed, my back to the wall. I prayed the voice wouldn’t speak. It didn’t. Thankfully, I plunged my fork into the dish and began shovelling the meal into my mouth, savouring each bite. Soon, before I even noticed, the plastic container was empty with my fork thrown in. I swallowed my last mouthful and placed it beside me, sighing deeply. It was the first proper meal I had eaten in a while.

“Good?” the voice said. Instantly, my relief was gone and I groaned, sliding off my bed and walking back into my kitchen, placing the container in the sink for me to deal with later. But this time, I knew I would. The rest of the week was consumed with cleaning. It was all I did. That and ignoring the voice. It tried to speak to me several times but I never replied. But despite that, the voice never lost its optimism. Its tone was always happy and sounded pleased to speak to me. After a while, it became less annoying and more depressing. Like ignoring an elderly relative in the corner of the room. Eventually, I caved and replied.

“I wonder what kind of weather it’ll be today,” it had asked.

“Probably warm,” I said back. “Middle of July, it's to be expected.” The voice didn’t seem to notice. That annoyed me.

“That’s good,” the voice continued. “Good day for a walk.”

“Finally leaving me?” I joked. The voice laughed.

“No, no,” it said. “Not yet.” I found myself smiling. Cursing at myself, I forced the smile away and turned back to my living room. I was still cleaning it. As the days continued, my apartment began to get cleaner and cleaner, and I didn’t question why. Had it been the voice? Was it the idea that another being was watching me and I, therefore, wanted to prove to it that I could take care of myself? I still hadn’t left the apartment since my last trip to the store. My food had run out and I was back to my normal routine, with the addition of clean a surface a day. But then, while cleaning my living room, I found a framed photo of my father. Instantly, the good feeling that had been building vanished and I broke down. Tears poured down my face and soaked my jeans as my thumb pushed aside the dust that covered his face. Behind me, I could feel the voice looking.

“Is that him?” it asked. I nodded gently. The photo was from my first day of school. My father was dropping me off and decided, last minute, to take a bunch of photos in different costumes. We had walked past the drama room and he had seen the costumes sticking out of the box. It was a very quick decision for him. The one I had framed was of us both dressed as pirates. He had the biggest grin on his face, clutching a plastic sword made for children tightly in one hand, an eyepatch over one eye.

“He often said that was the happiest and saddest day of his life,” I said. “His little boy, growing up.”

“No father likes to see his child grow up,” the voice said. There was a slight sadness to its words. I could feel it behind me, feel its eyes on me, if it even had eyes. “It's clear he loved you very much,” the voice continued. “He would hate to see you this way.”

“This way?” I choked.

“Sitting inside every day, eat little to nothing…” the voice trailed away and I heard a deep sigh. “It would destroy him to see you like this.” I sniffed and placed the frame back down, making sure it sparkled in the yellow lightbulbs light.

“You're right,” I muttered. “But I can't help it.” I heard the voice pause.

“Why do you do this?” it asked. “Why haven’t you left your apartment in days?” I shrugged, my eyes still lingering on my father’s face.

“Don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I saw no reason to leave the house.”

“But what about your step-mother or sister?” the voice continued to push. “Surely they would care about you and want to know you're okay.”

“Sarah hasn’t spoken to anyone since the funeral,” I muttered. “And my step-mother left the country as soon as the body was in the ground. Didn’t even stay for the wake.” I felt a little anger start to boil in my chest. “Some say it was because she couldn’t bear to return to their home without him. But I think she just ran off to hide from the family. She was never seen as a favourite by my grandparents.” I moved my eyes away from the picture and back to the rest of the living room. There was still a lot to do.

“Why don’t you go see Sarah?” the voice asked. “See how she is? Make sure she’s alright?”

“She’d never let me in through the door,” I said. My relationship was complicated with my sister. We started close as most siblings do, but once she went off to college, she became a different person. She spent time with the wrong people, did drugs, got arrested. And all of this was without my father or step-mother knowing a thing. This all cumulated one year when she got back from her weeks holiday after graduation. Our father was treating her like she was made of gold and I got angry and a little drunk. I then made a speech to the whole family about her college life and exposed everything she had done. Once I was finished, she left in tears and with our father shouting questions after her. It took her a while before she spoke to me again. Even at the funeral, I could feel her icy eyes on me. We only exchanged a few sentences and offered a few words of condolence.

“Then why not reconcile,” the voice said, almost whispering its suggestion. “Do you think he would want you two squabbling after he’s gone?” For the first time, I was really listening to the voice. It was there to help me. I sighed deeply and stood, feeling the voice’s presents on my shoulder.

“I know,” I said gently. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“Apologise,” it said back, a slight rise in its tone. “Tell her you're sorry and that you want to start over.” I laughed.

“Again, she won't even open the door for me,” I retorted. “I had to tell her our grandmother died through that door.” This time, the voice sighed.

“Then do the same thing,” it said. “You’ve got to at least try.” I turned and looked behind me, expected to see a comforting face, but I was met with my empty, still slightly grubby, apartment. My smile that had been sitting on my face fell slightly. “Sorry,” the voice mumbled, understanding my feeling.

Looking back at it, it was an odd sensation. Having these long, in-depth talks with an entity that didn’t have a physical form. I had no face to look at, no smile to comfort me. And the longer I spent with this voice, this mysterious entity, the more I missed seeing it. That face I had seen in my TV static when it first spoke to me become how I imagined it. It was no longer creepy or terrifying. Now, it was a good memory. Eventually, after another day or two of some light conversation, the voice convinced me to speak to my sister, and I did. I left my apartment, for the first time since my shopping trip, and took the bus all the way to my sister’s, Eliana, house.

It was a small, decently good-looking house in the western parts of our town. Some said that the area was full of drug users and criminals. I remembered thinking that she would fit right in when she first moved here. But now, after seeing a few news reports from the area, I become worried for her safety. My conversation with Eliana didn’t last long and didn’t feature any exchanges of words, but I knew she was there. I could see her silhouette through the frosted glass of her front door. Or at least I hoped it was her. I said my piece to her and left. I was hoping, as I turned away, that the door would swing open and she would run out and hug me, but no such thing happened. I got back on the bus and went home.

That was the first instance of the voice convincing me to do something. Before, it had just annoyed me into leaving my home to avoid it. By the end of the year, he had convinced me to reconcile with many friends, reconnect with old work colleagues and even started talking to my step-mother. It was the last thing he helped me with. I can't remember how it began, the conversation to convince me, I mean, but I know that he began it by saying:

“After your mother died, he left you? Didn’t he?” The voice by now was sounded more human than ever, emotion weaved in its words with a discernible warble in its delivery. And he was alright. When my mother died my father left the country for a few months, leaving my sister and me in the care of his parents. When he came back, he had our step-mother wrapped around one arm. It wasn’t the best first impression of the woman, but she turned out to be nice enough and we allowed her to become part of the family.

“Yeah, he did,” I said back to the voice. By now, I was nearly my old self again. I was dressing myself sensibly and had a day planned, as well as a meal to be prepared for that evening. “And he came back with my step-mother.” Also by now, I could tell when the voice was nodding. There was no visible shift in anything, but I could tell from the length of the pause that either it was thinking or nodding. This time, it was a nod.

“What did he tell you about her? Before he passed?” it asked. I frowned and turned to the wall.

“What do you mean?” I asked back.

“Did he ever say why she came back with him? Why he fell for her?” I stopped for a moment. He never did.

“No,” I said flatly. “He didn’t. But that doesn’t matter. She made him happy. She saved him from a dark place.”

“And yet, you don’t turn to her?” the voice asked. My frown deepened.

“She’s the one who ran off!” I shouted. “She didn’t go to the wake, she didn’t even watch as the dirt was shovelled onto his casket. And if she cared so much, why hasn’t she tried to call me, huh? Why hasn’t she bothered to try and contact me? If she loved me and my father enough, why didn’t she stay and­–” As I shouted, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and started searching through my contacts, finding her to prove my point, but my eyes landed on the word: Blocked. I stopped. I didn’t remember blocking her. It must have been during the wake, many after one too many drinks. She couldn’t contact me if she tried, and she didn’t know where I lived. No one did really. I moved the same week as my father’s funeral. The topic never came up. I looked back at the wall, shame running over me.

“She can't contact me,” I muttered. Again, I felt the voice nod. Without another word, I unblocked her and called her. She answered immediately, her joy-filled voice echoing through the speaker. I laughed and tears formed in my eyes. It was good to hear her voice. We spoke for hours, explaining our lives since we last saw one another and talking about the bad and the good. I was right, she had run from the wake to avoid the family but she had tried to contact my sister and me almost immediately, but when neither of us answered, she assumed we wanted nothing to do with her. She tried a few more times, me especially, but with no response, she soon gave up. I explained my side and she instantly understood. She wasn’t angry or upset, she was so accepting and understanding. I know knew what the voice meant. This was why my father chose to marry her. She was such a kind, open person. Despite what I had done, despite the near three years of silence, she still was happy to hear from me and didn’t care about the reason. Together, we organised to meet up the following day at a café my father particularly liked. Grinning, we ended the call and I looked back at the wall.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “That’s why my dad chose her.” I waited for the response. My grin fell and I stepped towards the wall, placing a palm against it. “Hello?” I asked. I then realised that I hadn’t named the entity that I had been speaking to for the better part of two years. We conversed daily, yet I never asked for its name or anything about it. I had shared one of the worst parts of my life with something that I only ever spoke to, and I didn’t know anything about it.

It never spoke to me again, that voice in the wall. I was sad for a while, for a long while in fact. I began most mornings by looking at the wall and asking it a question that would inevitably go unanswered. A few people I had forgotten were staying over definitely thought me odd for doing so, but it wasn’t long before I stopped. I just continued my life, that voice in the wall becoming a little footnote in my life. I avoided talking about it with others and it never came up at any point of any relationship I was a part of, obviously so.

I don’t know what was speaking to me through the wall of my bedroom, and I don’t think I will. But I will always be thankful. Sometimes, still, I wake up and place a palm on the wall and smile, feeling like my life once again means something. The few I've told have offered suggestions. A guardian angel, a spirit trapped on Earth until it completes its purpose, but I think my step-mother has the best answer. It was my father, reaching to me from beyond the grave. I like that solution. It means my father is once again looking after me. And who knew, that even in death, that he could do that?