Listen.

       Mommy says the walls have ears. She says that’s how she’ll know if I don’t go to bed on time. She’ll know if I’ve been bad. The walls will tell her. Daddy says the walls will tell him if I’ve been crying. He says I have to be strong. He says strong people don’t cry. I learned a long time ago not to cry in front of Daddy. It makes him angry.

       I don’t go inside much anymore. My only friend is out here, anyway. Mommy never told me if my cardboard walls have ears. It would be okay if they do. We’re friends.

My friend doesn’t talk much. Or at all. But that’s okay. She’s a great listener. It’s nice to be able to talk. I listen a lot.

       I listen to screaming and shouting inside. I listen to glass shattering. I listen to the thud of a hand on a face. I listen to the dog yelp. I listen to her claws clattering on the wood floor. I listen to her frenzied breathing. I listen to the thud of a large body on solid ground. I listen to her breathing, slower now. I listen to a human voice, quieter now. The walls may have ears, but they are cold. My ears are warm against the dog’s chest. Her chest grows cold against my ear. I have never listened to a heart beating. If the walls have ears, then they are useless. I wish I could give them mine. I don’t want to hear the fighting anymore.

       That’s my only memory of Mommy and Daddy doing something together. I remember all of us getting in the car to take the dog to the vet. But it’s already too late. I remember driving home in silence, minus one family member. I think I prefer the screaming to the silence.

       I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, cardboard surrounds me again, caressing, comforting, a warm embrace I never knew.

      Sometimes I wish the walls had eyes instead of their useless ears. Then the walls could see me doubled over, arms around my knees. Then they could see my head buried in my body, hiding from the world, searching for desperate escape. Then they could see my body racked by silent sobs. Then they could see the bruises, the scrapes, the scars. Then they could see my smile, plastered on, and tearing at the corners.

       Sometimes I wish the walls had mouths. If the walls know what happens inside of them, then surely they would say something. If the walls had mouths, maybe I could get help.

       I look up through a hole at the sky and watch the clouds. I watch dragons romp and play. I watch aliens battle each other. I watch soldiers disappear into a new cloud when they are slain, forever transformed, forever transforming. I watch wizards spin fire. I watch a childhood I never knew. I watch, and I wonder. I wonder if Mommy and Daddy see stories in the clouds. I don’t think they do. Maybe that’s why they’re so angry all the time.

       My cardboard sanctuary cannot drown out the yelling inside. I try to concentrate on the clouds, but I cannot ignore the noise. If the walls really have ears, they must have gone deaf by now.