In a country led by a sardonic leader who never smiles and makes a bitter face at anyone who ever passes by, it is amazing what the people can do in the darkness of their homes. Regardless of how a home may appear from the outside with its antiquity and class, there are always corridors inside that have dingy appearances, where secret exchanges are made and blood is shed; secret passageways where unknown people are concealed and where clandestine rooms are kept under lock and key. Such places are never made to be investigated and these private happenings are never meant to be inquired about. Nobody wonders what happens between the walls of these homes. Nobody is supposed to know what happens behind them, everyone’s lives are their own. Secrecy is the art of this country and it only aids them that the leader has no care for his people. All his people are nothing of his concern, he does whatever he pleases. Despondency is the reason for many of the occurrences, depression takes over a lot of these people and they cannot control what happens, and many things they do are done on impulse. Beings living in this hidden country cannot be changed, they will forever remain this way. We can only imagine what actually goes on.

No houses appear mysterious from the outside, they are only horribly dilapidated on the inside. They cannot be saved, for nobody suspects what exists on the inside. One house is mauve, with beige trimmings, the plants and shrubs trimmed to perfection. This house appears to be the paradigm of perfection in any neighborhood. Watching from the window a silhouette can be seen gently placing a pair of pince-nez on a bedside table. The shadow walks toward the wall, no sound is made. It walks with such grace and poise that it is hard to believe it is a being at all, like a ghost. Hands are placed on the wall and no noise is made, but the figure slowly collapses to the floor. The hands press to the wall with hope for support. The contact does not help, there is no aid from the wall, the shadow is helpless. It touches the hardwood floor and is still, as if dead, as if drained of all life and feeling. This shadow fell with such languor, it is hard to tell whether it will move again. Its hands hang lifelessly, and the rest as if in a heap of nothing. The head of the figure leans its head towards the wall and slowly it becomes one with the concrete behind. The shadow became the rust colored wall and it fought the embrace of the one behind. The wall was calm, as if this was some inveterate practice done to many over time. The wall rests with only one deformity, the shadow. The figure, now trapped in this emptiness of a wall appears to scream, but nothing was heard, not a sound, as the figure disappeared into what seemed to be endless nothingness of red.

In a punctilious manner, the door of the house made a creaking sound. Another silhouette darted across the aisle to the house beyond. It was swift, like a horse running freely through a field, yet it had an inexplicable vengeance painted on its dark features. Into an equally quaint house it creeps, and makes its way to the room of teal. This one sits on the floor. It is untouched by the walls, kept pristine by its surroundings. This one is not like the others. It’s not rakishly fighting off anything; it’s not perturbed by anything around it. This one is calm, and quiet, and eloquent. As it turns there is a flash of that vengeance in its face. That eloquence is gone and has been replaced by a feverish look of despair. It gets up, this time it’s worried and that can be seen from its movements. The shadow is no longer graceful, but the movements are forced and tension can be seen. It makes an about face and turns to the wall, hands up as if in surrender. Standing makes it nervous, the figure shakes and the sense of comfort has escaped, into the air far, far away. The figure resists any temptation to run, it can’t start to fight the wall. As the silhouette stand there, palms to the wall it is engulfed and the wall takes it in. This silhouette is no longer and has given up on survival on its own. What is left is the vengeance and malice that will never leave the surface of the wall, it’s the only part of the shadow that lives.

In this oligarchical country ruled by one supreme leader, the wall, everything happens behind closed doors. It is unclear what the leader knows and doesn’t know, but he contains the living beings that stand. Every being in this hidden place is like that of the shadows. The shadows creep and crawl, not knowing when they will be taken. Many try to fight, but they cannot fight for long. Some cannot fight at all and they are the ones who suffer the most in the taking. The ones who fight, fight with calmness and happiness. They fight with willpower and outward feelings. None have found a way out, every one of them eventually surrenders. They know they are never powerful enough. No power can stop the leader, His vengeance is too much. His pain is too much to contain. His malice and desire is overflowing. His heart, it is none. He feels no regret, He feels no sorrow. He feels no shame and no compassion, for he has no love. He decides the fate of all, they are all helpless nothings to Him. The question often arises as to what secret, hidden world this is. In our world, in our existence we know not of such a place. But, this does exist, and it always will exist. This is the mind of a teenager.