Author’s Note: This is the second successful (in my opinion) short story I’ve written. I will make no further note on it, because I hope that you will find meaning in it by yourself. Please review and thank you for giving the time to read it.

White Walls

She didn’t have white walls anymore. She hated white walls. They scared her more than she could say aloud. She much preferred to have a wall covered in personality. She made sure to always keep her walls screaming of her; what she liked, how she lived, who she was. She would cover those walls with anything to remind herself that this was her room. It wasn’t her parent’s, whose house it was in. It wasn’t just the room next to the bathroom. It wasn’t the room smaller than her older brother’s. It was hers.

She vaguely remembered when the plain white walls didn’t bother her as much as they did now. She was younger then, and content to be her parent’s child. She was content to be the younger sister. She was content on being admired from a far while being quiet and sometimes unnoticed. She was content on being someone else’ property.

But she was a teenager now, one coming close to college. People began to see her. Actually see her. Not as the spitting image of her mother. Not as her daddy’s little girl. Not as that one guy’s little sister. People began to see her.

The realization that she was now being seen sent jolts through her. What came now? What about the girl with the white walls? What would she show the world about her?

She never had anything to show before and the white walls frightened her. People were seeing her for her white walls. Plain, blank, white walls. For a while, she was frozen, unknowing of what to do. Paint lay at her feet and it was up to her to paint her white walls to tell the story of the newborn mind.

For years, she listened to others. She looked at the other walls of other rooms of other people. She was always amazed at what they had to show. Some where nice, orderly, simple reflecting the people of order. Some were jumbled, scattered, twisted to reflect the wild and chaotic. Some where covered of pictures of other people (friends, family) reflecting those who cherished the past.

She watched as these walls of other people changed, watched the people living in the rooms change with them. She tried to copy the other walls, using her paintbrush to mimic the strokes of others. No one scolded her for this plagiarism, encouraged it even, so she continued to clone the personalities of others onto the walls of her rooms.

Her walls filled up with the artwork of others, of which she fancied. As she grew, however, her walls began to mock her. “Not yours!” they seemed to scream. Inside, she knew the walls were right, but she knew of nothing else to do. She had become so used to copying the work of others, that she had forgotten the work of herself.

But this is what others had told her was right to do. Paint your walls like everyone else, conform then like others do. She began to hate herself as her walls continued to scream at her, though. This wasn’t her. This is what others had fashioned her to be like, but still not her. She wondered how many people had fallen into such a trap. The trap that stripped you of your mind, of your originality, of your personality, of you. The trap that said you could be anything you wanted to but yourself.

She was in love with this trap as a child, but now it suffocated her. While the walls screamed at her, she screamed back. She could see the trap that had been laid so perfectly, but she couldn’t find a way out.

The way out did come to her, but at first she was terrified of it. She didn’t want to think of what she would have to do to show the world who she was through her walls. But the walls began to scream louder. “So close!” they shouted. “But not yet! Not yours!”

She stood in her room and cried as the walls continued to scream. She knew that if she didn’t leave the trap, the trap would consume her. She would loose herself before she ever really found herself. She knew she couldn’t let that happen. She ripped down the wallpaper she had stole. She splashed white paint over it all. She made the walls white again.

She stared again at the white, blank walls. “This time,” she told herself. “Mine.” She threw away the old and pulled out the paints. She took a step forward and began to paint her walls. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, till all the white had gone. For years she worked, painted, created the walls of her room.

Each section she finished, filled her with such joy. She barely noticed the other people that came to visit her room and stare. They looked at her and looked at her walls. She would always smile, even if she didn’t acknowledge them. Any time someone came, she knew that they were seeing her and not a copy of someone else.

Eventually, her walls were finished. She stepped back to admire her work, her filled eyes taking in what she had completed. “Mine,” she said, but that word didn’t satisfy her. The walls mimicked her dissatisfaction. She smiled. “No,” she corrected, looking over the painted walls again. “Me.”