We were somewhere else. The walls. We were living, in the walls. Our food, our clothes, in those walls. Our pillows.
We moved … on occasion, only. I was told not to move, but … sometimes moved. My mother’s voice, would grow serious. I would sit, on my pillow. And I would listen.
There were so many days, so. Still, and listening. If we spoke, it was softly, in the dark. We spoke … for a moment, only. Resuming, our listening.
I was uncertain. My mother … I did not then understand, for what reason she listened. For fear of what, she quit breathing. I only quit breathing, and listened.
And there was a sound. One evening. We both heard … the door, open. The tread, and the caution, of someone. She was stiller, my mother, more silent, than when she slept.
And the sound, grew louder. I could feel, in her arm, her heart. It beat faster, as the footsteps beat faster, on the floor. They came closer, the steps, and closer, together. They were so close. They were … next to us. Beyond, the wall.
Scratching. There was … scratching. On the wall. I felt … a hand, my mother’s hand, slide over my mouth, and hold it. Silencing, even, my breathing. My tears gathered, on her fingers, and ran, down her arm. My head, touched her forehead. Her tears gathered, in my ear, and ran, down my back.
And the wall cracked, open.