The Crying Walls
My husband is supportive. He is my rock. My therapist, to her credit, was patient.
It was her day off. I had called her three times, sobbing, practically screaming for an appointment. I offered her three thousand dollars for forty-five minutes.
Now, I sat in the waiting room, shivering in a coat that was too heavy. The room was oppressive. Yellow wallpaper. Yellow paint. Yellow trim. Even the carpet was a sickly, jaundiced yellow.
Why is it all yellow?
I chewed my cuticles until they bled. Was the color meant to get inside my head?
My phone buzzed. Jasper.
Jasper: You’re okay, Elle. Just breathe.
Jasper: I’m right here. If it gets too dark, just walk out. I’ve got you.
I scrolled through the texts, my vision blurring. He kept me tethered to reality while my mind tried to float away.
When Dr. Harley finally opened the door, she looked wrecked. Her sweater was inside out. There were crumbs on her collar and a smear of toothpaste on her lip. She looked at me not with professional detachment, but with exhausted pity.
“Elle,” she said, gesturing to the chair. “What is happening?”
I practically fell into the seat.
“I can hear it again,” I choked out. “Everywhere. In the bedroom. The bathroom. It wakes me up. It won’t stop.” I clawed at my scalp, feeling strands of hair snap. “I’m going insane, Dr. Harley. I am losing my mind.”
Dr. Harley leaned forward. Her eyes were dark, searching.
“A baby,” she stated flatly. “You hear a baby crying.”
“Yes.”
“Can you think of any reason—any reason at all—why your mind would conjure the sound of a crying infant?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My stomach vaulted into my throat.
“No,” I whispered.
“Can you make it stop?” I begged, leaning forward. “I’ll take anything. Sedatives. Antipsychotics. Please.”
Dr. Harley’s expression hardened. The pity evaporated, replaced by something cold and clinical.
“Elle, we have discussed this. You terminated a pregnancy.”
“I had an abortion,” I corrected through gritted teeth, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs. “Because it was going to kill me. My heart condition—my body wasn't strong enough.”
“Of course,” Dr. Harley said. Her voice was sugar-sweet, but her eyes were judging. “And I’m sure you asked your husband? Was he truly happy with that decision, Elle?”
Something sour rose in my throat. My fingers flew to my neck, checking my pulse. Palpitations. Heart attack. Dying.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Jasper respects me. He loves me.”
“You’re checking your pulse again,” she noted dryly. “Elle, what you are hearing is your subconscious guilt. You made a decision based on fear. You are twenty-four. Prime childbearing age.”
“Stop it!” I snapped.
“I am simply trying to help you confront the truth so the noise will stop.”
“I’m leaving.”
I grabbed my bag, tears searing my cheeks.
“Did he really tell you he was happy?” she called after me. “Or did he just say what you wanted to hear?”
I burst out of the office and straight into Jasper’s arms.
He was solid. Warm. Safe.
I buried my face in his scarf, inhaling the scent of cedar and mint. I let myself crack apart, sobbing into his chest.
“I told you she was a quack,” he mumbled, stroking my hair. He pulled back, his brown eyes full of infinite patience. He smiled, that reassuring, freckle-dusted smile that made the world feel steady. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”
Home. Quiet. Safe.
Until the night fell.
I woke up at 3:00 AM, sweating through my pajamas. The room was pitch black.
And there it was.
Waaaah. Waaaaah.
Loud. Screeching. Relentless.
I slammed my hands over my ears, curling into a ball. It didn't help. The sound wasn't in my head—it was in the room.
I shook Jasper.
“Hmm?” he groaned, shifting in the sheets. “You okay?”
“I can hear it!” I screamed. I tumbled out of bed, dizzy, my legs tangling in the duvet. “It’s bleeding through the walls, Jasper!”
“Elle, come back to bed,” he murmured sleepily. “There’s nothing there.”
“No!”
I scrambled toward the wall. The sound was vibrating against my palms.
WAAAAH. WAAAAH.
I looked at the wallpaper. Yellow. Just like Jasper liked it. Just like the waiting room.
I dug my nails into the seam.
I pulled. A long strip of paper ripped away with a wet tearing sound.
The crying got louder.
I tore again, frenzied, panting, my fingernails breaking against the plaster. I ripped a massive chunk of drywall tape away.
My hand brushed against something cold and hard.
I froze.
Hidden behind the drywall, taped to a stud, was a sleek black rectangle.
Jasper’s old iPhone.
The screen glowed in the darkness.
Now Playing: CryingBaby.MP4_loop
The blood drained from my face. I stared at the phone, then at the sleeping form of my husband.
But the screaming didn't stop. It was echoing from the other side of the room now.
I laughed. A harsh, jagged sound.
I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a nail file. I hacked at the wall behind the medicine cabinet.
Rip. Tear. Crunch.
Another phone.
Now Playing: CryingBaby.MP4_loop
I turned around, sliding down the wall to the floor. The cacophony was deafening. A stereo surround-sound of grief.
I wasn’t crazy.
I looked through the open door at Jasper, who was sitting up in bed now, watching me in the dark.
I wasn't the one who was insane.
He was.