Talking to Walls (standard:drama, 6094 words)
Author: T.A. Parmalee	Added: Oct 07 2008	Views/Reads: 3167/2235	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A boy's brothers all keep dying. His father is convinced their shadows are to blame. Could it be true?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

because my father insisted that the services be held at 8 p.m. Who goes 
to a funeral that late? If you haven't eaten dinner yet, it spoils your 
appetite, and if have, you have trouble falling asleep. My father was 
only mildly offended that the turnout was bad, though. 

“Your brother wasn't a people person,” he said to me. Then he added,
“It's better not to have so many friends. Less people get hurt that 
way.” 

My father always was saying things like this. I think that he had gotten
it into his head that he was the only good person left on Earth. I 
remember constantly wishing that he would go outside into the open, or 
at least take off his sunglasses. He was wearing them even as my 
brother was put into the ground. 

“What did you do son? What did you do?” he was mumbling under his
breath. 

I almost lost it right there, right in the graveyard, in front of the
priest and everything. It was as if my father was accusing my brother 
from beyond the grave, as if he had forgotten to make his bed or 
something. 

The priest stopped talking and just stood there for a second, hovering
over my brother's body. The priest looked terribly old in his black 
robe. 

“What did you do son?” my father asked again, looking at his hands. 

“Let him sleep,” I said to my father. 

I said it sort of under my breath and he turned his head, but I don't
know if he heard me. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. Once 
the coffin was put in the ground we left, not even bothering to thank 
the priest. 

Does one thank the priest at a funeral? I'm not sure, but I remember
that I was upset at the time because my father didn't do so. I gave him 
a dirty look as we walked to my truck. I let my father drive because I 
was so upset. Before putting the key in the ignition, he put down the 
sun-visor even though it was pitch black out. 

The drive home was ominously silent. Neither one of us said a word. I
kept on expecting him to give a little eulogy or something, an 
explanation perhaps, but there was nothing. He seemed rather unmoved by 
the whole experience, and when we got back to the house, he walked out 
of the truck calmly while I slammed the passenger side door, stalking 
up to the doorstep. 

Afterward, I asked my father what he meant by asking my dead brother
what he had done. That's when he told me, “Your brother fell off the 
roof for a reason.” 

I asked him what that reason was. He said that he didn't know, but that
my brother must have done something pretty bad. 

“Maybe it was just fate,” I said. 

“No such thing,” my father argued with me. After that, I couldn't get
anything out of him. I asked him why none of our relatives came to the 
funeral, but all he told me was that we had no relatives. 

“None?” I asked. 

“All dead.” he muttered. 

At the time, I thought that my father was joking, but now I realize you
don't joke about things like that. I sometimes wonder why he did not 
provide more of an explanation at the time, but I think that maybe he 
just wanted me to leave him alone. I think that is what almost any 
father wants from his children. Most fathers will deny this, they'll 
say that they want their children to get a college degree, to “be 
happy,” but really, no honest, grown man thinks this way. Fathers just 
want their kids to let them be. It's bizarre, really. Men spend all 
their time dreaming about a wife, a house, two kids, and a dog, but 
when these things are finally gotten, it doesn't seem to be all that 
great. The wife is always shaving her legs, the kid is always asking 
for money, and the dog is always pissing on the rug. 

I never even knew my mother so maybe that's a little unfair. But that's
what my father said whenever I asked about her. 

“What...your mother again? Oh Christ, that woman. Always shaving her
legs, wanting to go out all the time.” 

He ran his hand through his hair every time I asked about her. As I got
older, he started going bald and then he just resorted to rubbing his 
head as if he were itching a rash she had left there after dying. Then 
he'd mutter something about her shaving her legs again, as though this 
were all that she ever did. So now, whenever I think about my mother, 
all I can imagine is a woman walking around the house with a 
mammoth-sized razor. 

My father doesn't even keep any pictures of her. I wanted to know what
she looked like once, but all he did was describe her. 
“Lanky...pigeon-toed...frizzy hair...” 

That's about all he said. He always mentioned her frizzy hair last, as
if it were just an afterthought. I remember he would start rubbing his 
forehead, searching for adjectives. He could never think of anything 
more to say, though, and to satisfy my curiosity he finally said 
something about a nervous breakdown and a hospital stay. 

“I tried to tell her to stay at home. I even told her that I would
forgive her. But she wouldn't listen. She just kept on shaving her legs 
and going outside when the sun was out, letting other men look her 
over. It was bound to happen.” 

He went on to tell me that it's bound to happen in any marriage. I took
my father's hand and held it in mine after he told me that. He let me. 
I imagine that he may have been crying, but I couldn't tell because he 
had those damn glasses on, shielding his countenance. 

Even after my last brother died, things went on that way for a while. I
suppose they would have never changed, but I was getting older and it 
was time for me to leave. I wasn't able to take pleasure in anything 
anymore. Even when the birds were singing, they always seemed to be 
singing the same damn song. Everything was monotonous. It seemed that 
my father was at the bottom of it all. There was no light in my life 
whatsoever. 

“It will get you in trouble,” my father always said. 

“The light?” I'd ask. 

But my father would never really answer. “You wouldn't understand,” was
all he said. 

I started packing my things. I wasn't the type of person who would move
far away; I had it in my head that I was going to get a job at the 
factory across town. I had been hearing about that factory my whole 
life. I had the notion in my head that it made textiles, but I wasn't 
even sure. 

It was hard leaving my old man. He really was old by the time I left
too. His dark glasses looked even stranger on him then because his skin 
had grown pale in his old age. He didn't even wear his jolly, flannel 
shirts anymore...they always seemed jolly to me, those shirts. Instead, 
he walked around in dark sweatpants and a flimsy T-shirt that was 
either navy or black. I never really could discern the color being that 
the house was so impenetrable...what with the darkness and all. 

There were rooms in that house that I never even went into. My
brothers', for instance. My father locked each one up after they died. 
I was sort of glad he did that, though. I didn't want to fuddle around 
in the room of a dead person...there's no telling what you may discover 
about yourself by disturbing the resting place of someone who is your 
own flesh and blood. 

My father protested as I left, of course. “Don't leave,” he said, “Don't
leave.” 

I scoffed at him the way he always sneered at me when I beseeched him to
come outside—to play a game of catch, to go for a walk, to help my 
dying brothers. I made a big scene about leaving, banging the door on 
my way out—my father pushing his sunglasses further up his nose as 
tendrils of light shot into the room like arrows. I half expected him 
to start melting. 

As it turned out, I did get a job at the factory. Everyone pretty much
left you alone as long as you did your job. All I had to do was iron 
letters onto T-shirts. 

After awhile, though, I started wondering about my pop. What if he
needed to get food? What if the house caught on fire in the middle of 
the day? What would happen then? 

An image of an intense heat consuming my father's body swept over me. I
could see him flailing his arms about, looking at the door, but 
refusing to open it, refusing to go out into the sunshine. 

The thing was, I had always been there for my father. Whenever he had
really needed something, I was the one to get it. When it occurred to 
me that he was helpless, I immediately rushed back home. 

When I got back, he was sitting in the dark. He propped himself up, and
as I walked into the kitchen, he started saying something about how he 
had known I'd come back. I ignored him and made my way to the 
refrigerator. The shelves were completely bare and I looked at my 
father accusingly. 

He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. “You weren't around to buy
groceries,” he said defensively. 

Deep lines had formed around his mouth and they stretched awkwardly as
he spelled out syllables, as though he hadn't spoken in weeks. Maybe he 
hadn't. 

“Why couldn't you go out and buy the groceries yourself?” I asked my
father, exasperated. 

He looked at me as though I were crazy. “That sort of thing just isn't
done. Not in the daytime. Not in this family.” 

That was true. We never had done our grocery shopping in the daytime.
But that had never stopped us from going grocery shopping at night. I 
pointed this out to my father, still holding open the refrigerator 
door. 

“The pickup...you took it with you.” 

“Of course I took it with me,” I said, “It's my truck.” 

The words came out of my mouth before I realized how foolish they were.
My father didn't have a car. He never had any reason to have one 
because he never went anywhere. 

I looked at my father then. He was wearing the same dark sweatpants that
I had seen him in last and the same damn T-shirt—I still couldn't tell 
what color it was. His face was pale. I suddenly felt very guilty. 

“You must be starving,” I said. 

My father nodded his head. It's funny how a man who desperately wants
something will rarely come out and say it; he always waits for someone 
to ask him something. Then he nods like that. 

I closed the refrigerator door. My father kept nodding his head up and
down. It struck me as very odd and I had to look away from him because 
I was becoming dizzy. 

“OK then,” I said, interrupting him. “Let's go. Let's go out and get
something to eat.” 

“Go out?” my father asked, his voice wavering. 

“Yes, how else am I going to get you any food?” I asked. 

“You go. You go and bring some food back for your father. Go on,” he
said, waving his hand toward the door. 

It was very strange how it all happened. This bony version of my father,
who always was discouraging his son from going anywhere when the sun 
was out, was now pleading with me to go and buy groceries at high noon 
because he was so hungry and scared. 

Like any boy does from time to time, I tested my father's resolve. “But
we don't go out grocery shopping in the daytime. You just said that 
that sort of thing isn't done in this family.” 

His lower lip dropped a little. His face sagged. “Yes, yes, you're
right. You shouldn't go out there. There's no telling what might 
happen. I suppose you must know by now. That's why you came back, isn't 
it?” 

“Know what?” I asked. 

But he refused to speak of it. He just sputtered out some nonsense about
night and day. As he finished his ranting, his stomach growled audibly. 


I looked at him again, a battered, pale, disturbed old man. “It's okay
dad. I'll risk it,” I said, even though I didn't know what it was I was 
risking. I started walking toward the door when he told me to stop. 

He opened a drawer in the kitchen and came back carrying something. It
was in a black leather case. His hands began to shake as he opened it. 

“Be careful,” he said, slipping the object into my hand. 

I knew then that my father was completely mad. But to please him, I put
on the pair of sunglasses. Then, I slipped out the front door. 

Instead of going to a grocery store, though, I went back to my apartment
because I was confused. I took off the pair of sunglasses that my 
father had given me and eyed it curiously, as if it were the missing 
piece to a Chinese puzzle. I set them down on the couch and watched 
them for a while. Once I had decided that they weren't going to do 
anything, I walked over to the phone. 

I felt tremendously guilty after making the call. I was told that, “it
would be no problem.” But still, I felt as though I were betraying him. 
The hospital said that it was the best thing, though. I spoke to two 
doctors; I can't remember either of their names, but they both said the 
same thing. It would be best for him to be looked after in a controlled 
environment. 

“He likes the dark,” I said. 

The doctors told me that they would do their best to accommodate him. It
was like they were running a motel. I told them to make sure he ate 
something and they said they would do that. I gave them his address and 
they said they'd send someone over right away. 

When I hung up the phone, I thought of my father surrounded by all those
doctors. I suddenly had an image of him sucking spinach through a 
straw, melting like a wax statue in front of an open window...holding 
his arms in front of his face and begging to be given back his 
sunglasses. 

If only he would go outside! But he was so deathly afraid of facing the
light, as though it would mean the end of him. 

I thought of my family. My oldest brother, who had toppled off the roof
and my other siblings, all of them who had met with some sort of 
catastrophe during daylight hours. I thought about the funeral, when my 
father asked, “what did you do son, what did you do?” 

“I don't know,” I said aloud. “I just don't know.” 

Who does know really? Maybe my father knew what he was talking about.
Maybe there was something out there to be afraid of. 

For the next few nights I could not sleep. All I could think about was
my father's emaciated form and the empty refrigerator, his scratchy 
voice saying, “You must know by now, yes, that is why you came back.” 

But the truth was, I didn't know anything. My father never told me. All
I knew was that my entire family was dead except him. 

It occurred to me that I was killing him by sending him to an
institution. Was that what it was called? I wasn't even sure. I had the 
vague impression that the doctor on the phone had called it “a home,” 
but really, these things are all the same. A home, an institution—they 
were both places where you stashed away the unwanted—a bargain basement 
of breathing corpses. 

I wanted to stop thinking. But it's hard to do anything but think when
you're sitting in a minuscule room with nothing but a set of four walls 
to talk to. It may seem odd to some people, talking to walls. But I 
spoke to them all the time. There was nothing else to do really. 

I rushed out the door to escape from myself. But it was a sunny day
outside and the first thing I saw as I started walking down the 
sidewalk was my shadow, standing right against my feet and hovering 
over my head. It seemed immense. 

I suddenly felt very small. I looked at my shadow standing over me like
that. That's when two little slits of light opened up where my shadow's 
eyes should have been. Each slit started shining on me in accusation. 

There is nothing so powerful in this world as guilt. I'm sure that some
would argue and say that love is an equal force to be reckoned with, 
but really, love never lasts. One spouse always cheats on the other and 
guilt shatters that love to pieces. It gnaws at it until it starts 
bleeding, and slowly, even if it's over a period of 30 or 40 years, the 
love starts to drain away. All the while, the guilt gets more and more 
intense, until finally, two lovers will not even look at each other 
anymore because each one is reminded of their atrocities. One is just 
left pushing into the other and both people start screaming. And yet 
neither one knows what all the pushing and screaming is for. It's like 
an unanswerable riddle; it's something that doesn't make sense—like an 
old man sitting in the dark for no reason. 

But these things are done. They are done before you can even contemplate
the ramifications of what you are doing, before you can even think 
about how it will affect the person you love or how it will affect 
yourself. Before you know it, it is done and you are left feeling 
cheated and used. 

You breathe heavily, trying to recover. But nothing is ever gotten back.
This is because the most important things in life are intangible and 
anything intangible can never be taken away by somebody else. This 
doesn't stop you from stealing from yourself, though. Some dark portion 
of you, lying in a hidden recess of your body rebels—in anger, in 
confusion, in something. Men spend their whole lives trying to figure 
out what that something is, trying to figure out how things happened 
like they did. 

But the answer is never found. I was searching for it as I stared back
at the two slits of light peering at me through my shadow's face. 

I reached out to my shadow, but I couldn't touch it. I was filled with a
sort rage then, because I knew it had the truth. My shadow knew 
everything. And yet I could not communicate with it, I couldn't ask it 
why I did what I did. 

How could I send my father to that place when I loved him like I did? He
had been hiding from himself his whole life. How could I have taken 
that away from him? 

But even as I asked myself this question, my shadow was stretching
itself out over me further, becoming bigger than I'd ever been or could 
hope to be. I started feeling very small in its midst...as if I were 
shrinking. 

There's nothing that will cause you to become less of a person than
doubting someone that you love. You just feel so bloody dreadful after 
that. And the truth was, I loved my father. I did not know why he chose 
to live how he did, but it was his life and it was the way he had 
always lived it, as long as I could remember. 

My shadow grew larger, calling attention to my guilt. Then, it did
something that it had no business doing. Though I was standing 
perfectly still with my arms at my sides, my shadow raised its left 
hand, and with a swooping motion, wove it through the air. 

I jerked my head back. The shadow swung again and this time it landed a
right to my ear. I told myself that this couldn't be happening, but 
then I felt another blow, this time to my stomach and I keeled over. 

As I was crawling on the ground, my shadow started jabbing at me with
its knees. I started crying out for help when I thought of what someone 
would see if they came—a straggly-haired young man crawling on the 
sidewalk and running from his own shadow. I would have looked like a 
coward. 

I thought again of my father...always sitting in the dark. My shadow
continued jabbing at me, punishing me for doubting my old man. I half 
expected it to start speaking, to start saying something about how it 
was important to obey your elders or some shit like that. But it didn't 
say anything. Instead, it started cuffing me on the head again, 
lowering first its left and then its right hand. 

I veered off the sidewalk and started crawling toward a tree, where some
shade was abundant. But my shadow grabbed me by the collar and pulled 
me back. I had to lurch forward like a dog on a leash wanting to take a 
piss, wanting to get to that perfect tree. Finally, I reached its shade 
and my shadow stopped pounding me and eventually disappeared 
altogether. 

But that didn't mean that it wasn't still there. Even after you realize
you have done something wrong, that doesn't change the fact that it has 
been done. It doesn't change the fact that a part of you, even if that 
part came out just once or only at certain times, went ahead and did 
whatever you are sorry for. 

These things cannot be changed. We can apologize for them, we can even
make excuses, but deep down, each person has to answer to themselves 
for their mistakes. 

I lay there under that tree, my body cold, my conscience numb. Something
was setting in for the first time, something that I had not even 
considered up until then. 

My father had his reasons for acting like he did. Where did I get off
telling him how to live? 

But he wasn't living, damn it. Anyone who refuses to confront his or her
mistakes is a coward. By staying inside all the time, my father was no 
better than the shadow, he only chose to show himself on his terms—when 
it was convenient for him. That's not the way the world works, I 
thought. 

That's when I crept out of the shade. Immediately, my shadow reappeared,
kicking the conviction out of me. I ran back toward my apartment, my 
dark half at my heels. 

I slammed the door and heard something thud against it. I started
walking up the stairs, shying away from any light, ashamed of doing so. 


What if I had pleaded with my father just a little harder? What if I had
made him go outside? But instead, I had turned on him—me, his own flesh 
and blood, who was just as much a part of him as his own shadow was. 

I opened the door to my apartment, but before I left, started to search
around. Finally, I found the pair of sunglasses my father had given me 
underneath the couch. I put them on. 

Everything is a contradiction in life. Even when you want to face the
truth, sometimes you are forced into wearing sunglasses. But I'd be 
dammed if I'd spend the rest of my life in a dark room, regretting my 
mistakes, letting others live and die just outside my doorstep. 

As I walked back outside, I pushed my sunglasses further up my nose. I
looked straight ahead and didn't bother checking both ways before I 
crossed traffic, not wanting to look out of the corner of my eyes. 

As I walked toward my truck, I kept expecting to feel something jab at
my back or poke at my eye. But there was nothing. Just the overwhelming 
knowledge that I had done something to hurt someone I loved. 

I drove to the hospital slowly, even though there was a certain amount
of urgency to what I was doing. Bizarre questions kept entering my 
mind...what if they had taken away my father's sunglasses away from 
him...what if the place was flooded with light... What if? 

I signed something at the front desk, but for all I know, I could have
been donating my body to science. The secretary smiled as if I was 
doing some her sort of great favor before telling me my father was in 
room six. 

I entered and saw him pacing around the room, rubbing his head and
talking to himself. 

“I told you that nothing could be done. Didn't I tell you not to go
outside? I did, didn't I? Now what was I supposed to do, go out there 
and end up just like you?” he was asking himself. Yes, maybe he was 
mad. I cleared my throat. 

My father stopped pacing and looked at me. Well, I'm guessing that he
looked at me because his sunglasses turned in my direction. 

Then he looked over his right shoulder, speaking to the air. “Look who
is here...it's your younger brother. Haven't managed to suck him in 
yet, have you? He's a smart one, you know. I see you've taken your 
father's advice,” he said, looking back at me. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

He tapped on his sunglasses then and I realized what he meant. 

“Oh, the glasses,” I said. “It's bright out there today. I don't really
need them.” 

My father just started laughing. 

“Who are you talking to?” I asked, pushing the sunglasses my father had
given me further up my nose. 

He held his belly and started laughing even louder. I noticed
reluctantly that he was still wearing the same pair of dark sweatpants 
I had seen him in last, and that same damn T-shirt. 

“Why, your brothers, of course. I'm talking to your brothers. They are
here. They won't say anything to me, but I know that they're here; I 
keep seeing them out of the corner of my eyes.” 

My father was sauntering around the room randomly. I knew then what I
had to do. Although I was scared, I couldn't help it. Sometimes, things 
just have to be done. I took a deep breath and then I took off my 
sunglasses. 

“No, don't!” my father said. 

But they were already off. I looked around the room and saw five
shadows—all that was left of my brothers apparently. Then I looked at 
my feet and saw my own. I stared down at it. 

It started stretching out before me. My father started pacing back and
forth. “Don't let it take him away, don't let it take him away!” he was 
crying out to no one in particular. 

My shadow raised its hand. It let loose its fury and brought it down.
Before its blow connected with my head, however, two of my brothers 
(their shadows) intervened. Each one of them grabbed onto one of my 
reflection's hands. 

“What's happening? What's happening?” my father asked. 

“I don't know,” I said. 

And I truly didn't. Two slits of light had opened up where a person's
mouth should have been on the dark faces of my two protectors. The 
slits were opening and closing...opening and closing, mouthing words in 
their silent language and talking to my own shadow. 

Then the two shadows let go of my own reflection. I looked down at my
own darker half. But it didn't grow in size. It didn't raise its hand. 
It just stood on the floor lazily, like any other shadow does. 

I was still holding the sunglasses in my hand. I twirled them around in
my fingers as the remnant of one of my brothers stepped toward me and 
held out its hand. I pressed mine against its own. My hand went right 
through it, but we had made contact. 

A slit of light opened up and the shadow mouthed two distinct syllables:
hello. No sound came out, though. 

“Hello,” I responded. 

“Who are you talking to?” my father wheezed, looking around the room
frantically. 

I looked at the shadow for an answer. Again, I understood. 

“Ronny—your oldest. I'm talking to Ronny.” 

“Then they are here!” my father exclaimed. 

I nodded my head at my father. The five other shadows in the room
mimicked me. I looked down at my own reflection, afraid that it might 
be doing something different, but it too was copying my movements. I 
gave a heavy sigh of relief. 

“Of course they are here,” I said. “You were talking to them when I came
in, remember?” 

“Oh, but I was just talking. I'm in an institution, remember? I knew
they were here, though. They were bound to come with all this light.” 

My father ran his hand over his bald head. His sunglasses slipped down
his nose a little. Then, to my astonishment, he reached his hand up to 
his face, but instead up pushing them back up his nose, he took them 
off. 

It was the first time I had ever looked my father in the eyes. I didn't
feel any real connection to them whatsoever, though. He looked around 
the room cautiously. Then, he stared at my face with a look of 
reproach. 

“You tricked me,” he said. 

At first I didn't know what he was talking about. But then I looked
around the room. 

All of the shadows were gone. All of them, except my own and that of my
father's. Our reflections were tapered and their heads were touching. 

“You tricked me,” my father repeated. 

I looked my father back in the eye. “No I didn't. They did,” I said. 

I walked across the room. Maintaining eye contact with my father, I held
out my hand. The lines in his face were inflamed and he ran a hand over 
his head. His fingers trembled. He looked at my outstretched hand and a 
tear rolled down his cheek. “It's not fair,” he said, as though he had 
no other choice. 

I was still holding out my hand. My father was very upset; his face was
scrunched up in a ball so all of his features were contained in two 
inches of space. It looked as though he was ready to throw a tantrum. 

I didn't tell my father to calm down, though. I just kept my hand out
and eventually he succumbed. He put the pair of sunglasses there and 
let out a groan as I cracked them in half. Then, he started crying. 

“It's not your fault,” I said. 

I said this even though I knew that it wasn't true, even though he could
have done things differently. But my father kept on crying. He put his 
face in his hands and started to bawl. 

I walked out the door, leaving him in his room like a child who has to
think over what he has done. 

As I walked down the hallway, I kept looking at my shadow. Every once in
awhile, it would move a little to the right or the left and I would 
flinch. To this day, it still does things that I have a hard time 
understanding. It doesn't seem to make any sense. You would think that 
your shadow wouldn't beat you up like that. 

As I approached the door, I looked back over my shoulder to see if my
brothers' remnants were following me. But they were gone. The only time 
that I ever saw them was that once, and to this day, I sometimes wonder 
if I imagined it all, if it never even happened. 

I ended up pulling my father out of the institution a week later. He
moved in with me and we would often go out for walks in the middle of 
the day—at high noon. 

Three months later he went to the doctor for a routine checkup and he
was diagnosed with skin cancer. The doctors were unable to do anything 
to help him. 

He died about two weeks later. Sometimes, I sit alone in the dark and
think of him. Sometimes, I look at my shadow and glare. 

But in the end, I always end up blaming myself for what happened. 

Copyright T.A. Parmalee; published in Broken Teeth: A Book of Short
Stories


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