Tear Down These Walls

By Rebecca Morgan

The Great Wall of China. Hadrian’s Wall. Their builders weren’t just trying to keep the enemy out. They were safeguarding what was within. Secrets of the night. Joy. Laughter.

Only a fool would leave the safety of his walled city to risk exposure and capture.

Which is why I should never have come to this party. Should never have been drawn in by the lights and glamour and the tantalizing promise of grilled hot dogs. Should never have been lured to fill the aching want to be around people.

A guy approaches. I know this because I’m sitting alone in the corner, and he is headed straight for me.  He gives a small smile as I survey him. My analysis tells me that his blond hair and blue eyes spell trouble with a capital T.

This person is not safe.

Get ready to protect what lies within.

Blond Boy clears his throat, gesturing behind him. “Kylee over there said you’re in vet school at Texas A&M. Not that I was eavesdropping!” A look of alarm passes over his face. “I, well, overheard her.” I’m sure he did. Kylee has a mouth so loose she’d give away the location of her city’s secret tunnel for a drink and a smile. He’d do well to stay away from her. I don’t answer. Blond Boy prattles on.

He rocks back on his heels. “I hope you don’t mind that I asked her about you.”

I do, in fact, mind. The watchmen at my walls sound the alarm. Take positions. Prepare for the counterattack.

Blond Boy continues. “That’s neat. All that medicine and science. Having to remember all of that. You must be really smart.”

A compliment. He’s luring me into a conversation about professors and school.

The wall shakes.

He’s complimenting me. I smile at the thought. The wall shivers. A brick tumbles off.

Drat him.

I scramble for mortar, hackles rising in defense. If I had to guess, I’d assume I looked like a crazed hyena. But I don’t have a mirror to check. Regardless, it doesn’t deter him. He continues as I hurry to put the loose brick back in place. Don’t let anything leak out. Don’t let him see me.

“I suppose I should introduce myself. Very sorry. Must have been disconcerting to have some random guy come up and talk to you.” He holds out his hand. “My name is Oliver.”

If I were a mathematician, I’d say his smile grows wider. But I’m not one. And I can’t fathom why he’s happy talking to me.

Oliver’s hand hangs in midair along with his unspoken question. I give him neither my hand nor my name. Giving someone your name makes things personal. Gives an automatic free pass beyond the walls to your heart.

His smile falters and his hand falls to his side. Regret stabs deep, and I feel like a louse. I’m sorry. I am. But better him than me, right?

Right? 

Because I cannot do this again.

Wall, please stay up. Sincerely, a concerned citizen. 

But at the same time, I ache to let someone in. It’s lonely here in The One and Only city.

I nod stiffly. “My name is Jules,” I say, keeping my voice cold enough to freeze the Gulf of Mexico.

Oliver takes this as permission to continue. Which I suppose it was.

“Well, you see, I was hoping you could help me. Right before I came here, well, I have a dachshund I rescued off the streets a few days ago. And now, well, you see… he’s sick and I didn’t want to google it. So, I don’t know, I was wondering… or thought that maybe… you could help me… if you knew anything about his problem. Not that I think you don’t know. I just…”

Drat him twice! My love for humans lately has been less than stellar, but my love for animals… the majesty of horses and the honest stupidity of cows. The loyalty of a dog and the comfort of a cat. That has only grown stronger.

Animals don’t try to tear down what you’ve spent years building.

Answering him will help his dog. A dog that could be his best friend, as the cliché goes.

As Oliver starts to fidget, I swallow hard and beg my watchmen to be at the ready. “What’s the problem?” I ask.

Oliver relaxes. “He won’t stand or move. When he does, he’s limping and staggering. This morning, he wouldn’t bend his neck to reach his food dishes. Shivers too, like he’s freezing.”

I hesitate, mulling over in my mind all that I’ve learned. “It sounds like degenerative disc disease. Your dog’s discs may be compressed. It happens with breeds like dachshunds because of their long backs and short legs. It can cause complete paralysis.”

His face crumbles. “But isn’t there any treatment?”

I start to shrug, then stop. Compassion fills me for this guy and the pet he’s bonded with. I find that my heart is starving and parched for communication.

“Depends on the severity,” I say softly. The walls around me shake but I forge ahead. “But your dog can still live a happy life with a doggy wheelchair. You’ll have to take him to a vet for evaluation. There’s not much that can be done until then.”

He nods, the diagnosis and treatment sinking in. The longer he stands there, the more uncomfortable I feel. And yet safe at the same time.

Isolated for so long behind my walls, the feeling is strange and foreign to me. A moment of reviving. Of being roused from sleep.

“Well, thank you, Jules.” Oliver holds out his hand again and this time I find myself shaking it, his warm fingers encasing my own. The mortar cracks, and a brick falls. I leave it on the ground.

I smile at him this time.

No. Thank you, Oliver, for freeing me.

One brick at a time, I’ll tear down these walls.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan has been writing stories since before she could read—or at least, she thought she was! All these years later, she is definitely writing, having written four novels and countless stories and poems. Rebecca aims to write stories that heal and bring healing through the written word. Besides writing, Rebecca loves cooking, reading, journaling, blue oceans, and salsa. She lives in the South with her family.

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