Walls

Revenir Short Story | Prison walls erase memories

Hello and welcome to the Fiction Section of Notes from the Town Hermit. I write literary and slipstream fiction and fantasy focusing on themes of identity and what it means to be human through a lyrical and poetic writing style. Subscribe for free to enjoy more stories.

You are reading a story from Revenir, an anthology exploring the human experience and delving deep into themes of love, loss, and the search for meaning. Written in a haunting, lyrical style and set in a single fantasy world, this collection is for readers looking for character-driven stories with strong emotional resonance.

AI-generated with Midjourney

They know what we’ve done, but somehow, I’m the only prisoner.

You’re standing there in utter terror as they chain me and take me in. Madoc is a few paces behind, expressionless.

A rebel leader, they call me.

Ashes float around us as the lock clicks into place and hooves clop muffled on the dirt road. All that’s left of our village.

I know it’s not my fault. It doesn’t seem yours or Madoc’s either.

I try searching for someone to blame, but the fast-paced events and walls stop me.

They’re just walls.

That’s what you say every time.

“It’s just walls; we’ll make it work.” Your voice is insistent, and your smile is breaking, but the nod following each word makes me believe it too.

We’ll make it.

You’re humming; your voice is sweet and beautiful.

“Sal?” I ask, and you stop.

“Yes?”

“You can let me go.”

Your sharp intake of breath makes me regret asking this of you. But I can feel it: my existence has already started to wrap up and leave people’s memories.

I can feel myself being forgotten slowly.

“How can you say that? They’re just walls.” Your voice is firm.

I chuckle because we both know walls mean a lot more than just that.

“Your mother needs you.” I say. It’s been weeks and I can tell you’re already forgetting me—us—from the edges. “You’ll get caught,”

I wish you’d just walk away. And I wish you’d stay. I wish each second would last hours.

“I won’t. I won’t.” Your voice is unsure, and I can tell that this slow parting is painful, but letting you go completely is so much more terrifying.

“Smile. We’ll get you out,” you say one day.

I smile. But the walls won’t let me see your beautiful hair and soft eyes. I picture them in my mind instead so I don’t forget. Black curls in the night but with streaks of purple in twilight, and those stray hairs near the part always sticking up.

“We’ll have ten children.”

“They’ll have your cackle.”

“If it matters to you,” I reply, “I’m smiling.”

I don’t think I smile again.

I can hear you bringing Madoc in.

You say to him, “Madoc, you remember Aldous, right?”

My breathing quickens; does he remember me? It’s been months, and this solitary living is getting to me.

I can feel my essence seeping into these walls, and I can feel everyone I know slowly forget me.

“Aldous?” Madoc’s voice is questioning, and I can picture you biting your lip and little tendrils of fear creeping into your veins.

“Yes, you remember, right? You used to get mad when we played without you.” Your voice is unsure, still trying to hold on desperately, but I can tell: I’m disappearing. “He’s behind the wall.”

They’re just walls, we say.

“How much longer?” I ask. I haven’t talked in a while, and it makes me stumble upon words. Your visits are less frequent and I’m left wondering.

You’ve held on for years, and despite me not having changed at all because of these walls, your voice is cracked and your footsteps weary.

“They’ve found a more viable suspect; the case is reopening.” Your voice is now purely professional and elderly.

“Okay.” And I feel ashamed that I sound the same as I did years ago when I first came in.

“Okay.”

“Remember that time we stole oranges from Madoc’s family tree?”

But the crisp sound of heels hitting against the floor is already fading as you walk away.

You’ve stopped coming. I can only imagine you’re no longer here.

I often find myself wondering if you died, having forgotten me like everyone else.

I hear footsteps again. They aren’t your steps, or your gait. I can tell.

“Aldous?” It’s Madoc.

“Madoc?” My lonely conscience desperately yearns for this man to know me.

Madoc is breathing heavily. I can tell.

He’s grown old like everyone else.

“I, uh, I don’t remember. But I know.”

I don’t know what to think. Don’t know what to say. “You know?”

And for a while he doesn’t respond. “She died with your name on her lips. Not mine.”

Everything stops. I knew you were no longer here; I just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

I want to tear these walls out and scream. I want to grow old like one should in a span of 30 years, and wither away just like you.

Instead, a stray, “Oh,” escapes me, and I know Madoc doesn’t hear.

“It was my fault. I lied. But she still wasn’t mine.”

And before I can ask him what he’s talking about, he leaves. Heavy, weary footsteps. I can tell he’s using a cane for support.

Next week, I’m free.

Madoc is dead and his dying letter was a confession, taking responsibility for the rebellion.

I’m set free of these walls, but it doesn’t feel that way.

No one remembers me, and I can only see the elderly carcasses of everyone I knew slowly die as I remain young.

And I hate the walls. And I hate Madoc.

And I hope you’re okay, wherever death is.

I’ve given up.

Nothing feels real, or mine.

And I’m hoping I can get to you when I’m done.

The walls are gone.

The orange grove is stripped bare. I visit your grave. “Sal,” I whisper as I trace the letters. But the name etched in the stone is already fading.

It doesn’t matter because no one else can be forgotten anymore.

I think I’ve broken the world though. Everyone remembers everything but I don’t have anyone to remember me.

This is it. This is goodbye.

They were only walls, some people will say.

But I’m glad they’re down.

Only some of us might know this.

But walls aren’t just walls anymore.

And I’m glad they’ve broken the world, if only for the forgotten ones.