(East Wing - fourth floor)

If the old and broken walls of the fourth floor had a mind, it would make the injustice that its occupants suffered, made known to mankind, for it encountered firsthand the horror its prisoners endured.

The guards, whom the walls believed to be the pillar of support for the prisoners and themselves, men that stood watch throughout the years, lay lifeless on the cold floor.

The prisoners, locked and caged in the belly of their cells all whimpered in pain. Some were awake while others were unconscious, but what the walls, if it had a heart would ache for, were the lifeless and powerless convicts who had been shot dead, like target practice, by the intruders who mercilessly toyed with them like animals.

The wall could feel wet fluids dripping from its body. Its parts that were once decorated by photos and calendars, sometimes annoying scratches from the convicts, were smeared with blood, snot, and tears. It didn't protest about the murky liquids, for it was not unfamiliar to have those things paint its body. But the amount that soaked it that time was far from what it could accept.

To its left, it felt the prisoner of cell 484. A man by the name of Callio crawled towards his bed. A trail of blood smeared the floor as he laboriously inched towards his cot. The blood that dripped from him came from his stomach.

The wall knew him so well, for he was one of those who would often leave a horizontal scar on the wall's body, counting the days to his release. Did the wall feel sorry for this man? Yes, it did, because the wall had stood for decades, and had heard countless stories, murmured by prisoners before they slept. Stories that were often reserved for the wall and prisoner's ears only. Confessions and regrets that only the wall would ever know.

Callio was innocent. A man who was urged to use a paddle on his schoolmate during the time of their fraternity hazing. He was forced by his seniors to paddle the newbies, hard until one student happened to have epilepsy, Callio's hit triggered his illness. The student died and Callio was brought to prison. The wall couldn't help but find it odd, though. Why was Callio imprisoned, yet those that gave him the command walked free? The wall heard him question the thing they called God over and over, asking him what his life would be like after his release, and served his fifteen-year sentence.

To its right, it felt the movement of 413, a middle-aged man who tried to bore holes on the wall's body, in search of-as what the convict called, hallow part. The prisoner believed he could find a weakness in the wall and it could serve as his escape route.

Did the wall pity this prisoner? No-the wall hated him for what he had done. But maybe, the wall was incapable of understanding what went on inside the convict's head. It heard the convict whisper every night, "I'm glad I killed you, you bitch." Who was this bitch? The wall would often wander, but as the years went by, the wall managed to piece together the identity of this woman he called bitch. Her name is Tina. She was the convict's wife. He took her life while she was pregnant with a child. A child which the wall knew, was not a seed of the convicted man.

The wall couldn't help but be amazed by the amount of anger 413 had for his late wife. Was it too difficult to father a child that was not his? Was it necessary to take the innocent's life, because the mother chose to sleep with a man, other than her husband? Maybe, the wall will never understand. Unlike humans, it came into existence, only to stand and remain to stand.

The wall suddenly felt cold, when to its middle, a slow gasp of breath was taken. One slow intake of air, the final one from 421, a former businessman who was imprisoned due to murder and robbery, which was instigated by the death of an entire family.

You see, as the wall listened to the whispers of 421 on his first night inside the arms of the mighty building, the wall heard his painful confession. He needed money for his dying daughter, so he robbed another man, a man who was on his way to pay the money he borrowed from a loan shark. Needless to say, when the man failed to pay, his family was killed. This man then went after 421 and everything ended with a bloody crime.

Whom should the wall blame? It wondered once. It was wrong of 421 to rob the man, but as he said in his prayers-he had no idea of the effects his robbery would entail. All he had in mind in those hours, was to save his only child. Should the wall blame the man that 421 robbed? Well, he was already dead, reunited with his family, in the same bloody way as they died. He only took revenge as a husband and a father. How could the wall blame him?

The wall longed for their blood to be wiped clean off of its body. The liquid had started to dry, and the wall knew, it would take a lot of soap and scrubbing to get them removed. It knew because it happened all the time.

As it listened to the whimpers and cries of injured men, the wall suddenly felt its body shake. Someone was punching it. It could feel the familiar shape of a human knuckle, boring itself to a part of the wall. Ah, 434, the man who prided himself on his strength. The wall had no qualms to feel his constant assault. It understood the pain prisoner 434 kept inside of him. He was one of those, whom the wall referred to as, the lost and lonely soul. This particular man hid his heart so well. Everyone inside the prison building believed the stories he made up. He painted himself as a ruthless thug, a scum who would not think twice to bury a fork in an inmate's neck. A man who had the heart of a stone, a man who was not afraid to die. But the wall knew better. It heard him cry for his mother, it heard him whisper for his wife to come and visit. The wall felt him plaster himself on the corners of his cell every night, in order to feel something, anything to keep his sanity.

He missed his mother and wife, a wife whom he treated with the same coldness and iron fist as he did the other prisoners. The wall found him questionable, because-Why cry out for someone if you've treated them without respect or love, to begin with? Was it because 434 was now alone and hopeless? Was it because he couldn't think of anyone that would care for him the same way his mother or wife did? Why only now, did he find their presence needed? The wall never understood, because, unlike humans, it did not have a heart.

The wall could do nothing but watch in silence. In an instant, a sudden commotion brought its attention to the stairs. Slowly emerging from the flight of steps was a footfall that it knew so well. A guard, an old odd man who went by the name of Sheldon. The wall listened, as he slowly strolled down the hallway, and in his wake, a man in a prisoner's uniform followed.

If the wall could roll its eyes-a commodity it probably wished to have a physical manifestation of-it would.

The prisoner, the wall had seen him slaughter his friends, and guards as well.

What an odd pair, the wall thought to itself.

But what truly surprised the wall was the familiarity of the papers, held by the guard. Yes, it was familiar... no, it's not only something that looked like it, it was exactly what the wall thought it to be. Letters, the same letters written by a soul, the wall knew so well. That man and the wall had been together since the day it came into existence.

If the wall could speak, it would ask for a favor, or maybe give a command instead. Send those letters to her.

Why would the wall demand such a thing? Because under its wings, those inked papers were written, within its belly, a silent man shed an unimaginable number of tears. Tears that far outweighed those that often graced the wall.

The man who wrote them died, with only the walls as his companion. His letters would never see daylight. Well, that's what the wall thought, but as it watched how the guard held on to the papers like his life depended on them, the wall felt a thrill. Was it possible, that the old man's final words, which only the wall knew of, shall come to pass? Could there be a chance that Lucious's last whisper, finds fulfillment?

If the wall could find the power to free itself from the metal confines the warden bound it in, it would fling that guard out and command him to run, sprint to the outside and bring those letters to a woman named Maria.

Once again, the wall felt its body shake, and despite it, wanting both men who lingered in the hallways to hide, it had no voice to give them a warning.

It felt the multiple footsteps, full of vigor and haste, ascending the fourth floor. Their intentions are as sinister as it was, the first time their group waltzed upon the cells of the top floor.

But alas, the wall could only watch. It could only be a silent witness, a bound thing, a still protector for the humans within its midst. Just a creation meant to hear, know, and taste the oddness of the humans that was its maker.