These Walls

Storm clouds stalk across the night sky, covering every inch of it. Cold gusts of wind force the tall coconut trees to sway, their leaves oscillating harshly in the dark night. The unlatched wooden and glass windows of the houses in the village crash against the walls they're fastened to, as the deep roaring rumbles from the clouds above, drown out the sound of their crashes. The little animals of the night, scurry to the nearest nook or cranny they can happen upon, their movements illuminated by the quick flashes of lightning above them. Another rumble begins, deeper and coarser than any before, while small flashes of light move quickly through the clouds. A bolt of lightning peaks through the clouds so innocently but then descends upon the village at breakneck speed with all of its hellish might. It takes no time for it to find its target: a house with a gaping wide hole in its roof; a house left to wither away by its inhabitants of yesteryear. The wooden furniture and curtains that forgot to be taken down, succumb to the great heat of the lightning strike and slowly, flames spread from room to room, engulfing the house in a blaze of violent orange while the thunderclap roars above. We see all of this unfold as we sit here helplessly, watching our friends burning in the distance. All the differences and quarrels we may have had in our decades long past, seemingly transforming into insignificant and forgotten moments from the years gone by. A feeling of melancholy helplessness runs through us. But we can do something, or at least we can try.

Jonathan lies asleep in the old bedroom; if we wake him he can do something, he can call for help. We might just be old spirits in an old house now but we are the spirits of warriors and fighters. We make use of all our might, every ounce of power that we have within us and concentrate it towards the cabinet in the living room. We force its doors open, slamming them against the wall and then expel the glasses at the front of the cupboard from their positions, causing them to reach the ground with a deafening crash. This coupled with the thunder are bound to get Jonathan out of bed. And as we'd hoped he has been awakened.

He pushes the doors open with great force and storms into the room. "How is anyone expected to sleep in this place?" He says loudly to himself. "First this infernal storm and now,.." He looks at the shattered glasses on the floor. "I just bought those." He says to himself quietly. One of the windows with its curtains undrawn faces the direction of the fire and the flicker of the flame in the distance catches his eye. He gazes upon the flames with a frown on his face and slowly draws the curtains across the window without giving it further thought. He brings out the broom and dustpan from the store room, sweeps up the broken glass and then goes back to bed. The orange flames continue to flicker in the dead of night, as the tiny pieces of ash from the fire carry themselves across the countryside, in a desperate attempt to find something to cling to. We hope that they do, but we know they will not. Minutes pass and the storm clouds move away without letting out a downpour.

The next morning Jonathan has breakfast at the dining table in the living room. He uses the plastic fork he carried along with him, to eat the omelet he prepared, leaving all the crockery and cutlery passed down from generation to generation lying idle in their cupboards and drawers. He sips some tea from his plastic cup and rests back in his chair at the dining table. He looks at the other chairs at the table and then at the room as a whole, taking in its grandeur. Yet, he seems sad, disappointed even. The last time we saw him with a look like that on his face was thirty-five years ago, when he was just an eight-year-old boy in a pair of muddy red shorts and a muddier white vest. That was the last day of his vacation here and it was time for him to go back home. It saddens us to see him with that very same look all these years later, but only this time at the beginning of his stay here.

Jonathan disposes of his plastic cutlery and takes a shower to freshen up. The storm clouds from last night have cleared and replaced themselves with ones that are light grey. As Jonathan rummages through the old cupboards in the house he stumbles across a photo album older than he is. The design and plastic on the cover are all faded and going to pieces. He carefully dusts it with an old rag and carries it to the living room. He seems hesitant to open it, his face looking pensive and worried. Almost as if he willed it so, the gate to the compound of the house creaks in the distance. Jonathan gets up, leaving the photo album on the table to be dealt with another time, and steps outside to see who it is.