A Silent Witness
Being a public bathroom, I have seen it all: body fluids staining my cracked tiles, paan juice smeared into my corners, anger carved into my doors.
But this?
I never imagined I would witness something like this. In that moment, I wished I could crumble and drag them beneath the weight of my decade-old bricks. Alas, my sagging frame remains, if only to hold a truth that none will hear.
Every day, kids from the nearby school stop by on their way home. Unruly, timid, hurried, lingering—every kind of child passes through me. I’ve lost count of the number of footsteps over the years, but sometimes someone leaves an impression. Like the boy who came that sultry afternoon.
The first thing I noticed, was his uniform: khaki pants and a sky-blue shirt, slightly faded and a little too big for his frame, but not torn or filthy. Unlike others, he washed his hands—thoroughly. He splashed water on his face and peered into the mirror, studying the dark circles beneath his eyes. I sensed something else beneath them. Fear? Shame? Disgust?
Then came the shock: he pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his face. In all my years, I had never seen that. At the time, I didn’t know he’d become a regular, or that I’d begin to wait for his visits.
Days passed, and he became the highlight of my afternoons. He always arrived after the rush of schoolchildren had left. He always chose the last cubicle, not before glancing to his left and right.
And then one day, three boys came.
“Oye, Mumma’s boy! So this is where you hide now?” one jeered, while another whistled a mocking tune.
They shoved him against the wall, muffling his cries. The belt scraped my tiles, the zipper rasped against my floor, his muffled screams soaked into my grout.
“Don’t you dare open your mouth.”
“You remember what happened the last time?” one yanked his hair and laughed, pressing him down. “Want to get suspended again?”
Their laughter echoed as they took turns, leaving him trembling and broken on the floor. His neat uniform hung in tatters, stained with what they forced upon him.
And that was the beginning.
Every day, at the same time, my walls echoed with the same horrors: the scuffle of shoes, the cruel grunts, the boy’s stifled cries. Their laughter was the cruelest sound of all, rising above his pain.
His shirt grew looser, his pants sagged. The dark circles under his eyes deepened, darker than the mould blooming across my tiles. He shrank before me, visit by visit, until he seemed more shadow than child.
But yesterday, the sounds stopped. The laughter. The sobs. The silence that followed was heavier than any scream. The floor outside the last cubicle carried a red river, seeping across my cracked tiles.
And I remain mute. A silent witness, if only someone could hear me scream.
(493 words.)
A Silent Witness is my submission for Five00-24, an event organized by ArtoonsInn. The prompt required us to craft a story in which the main character is not a person, but a setting.