What We Whisper Through Walls

Rachel yelled across the yard, her voice carrying farther than it should have, loud and unapologetic.

Three months into my sentence, I’d already learned: stay small, be quiet. Invisibility brought safety.

I was serving two years for a financial crime, a desperate attempt to keep my mother’s house out of foreclosure that earned me a felony instead of a solution.

I kept my head down and followed the rules.

Rachel didn't. Tall, with dark curls she refused to tie back and a thunderous laugh that filled the silence like an oncoming storm, she was serving time for a bar fight she hadn’t started but definitely finished.

She thrived on conflict—talking back to guards, picking fights.

People noticed her.

People like me avoided people like her.

Until today.

The afternoon count had just finished when the loudspeaker crackled overhead.

Brenda, a bully who ruled the north wing, had cornered Rachel near the fence. The chain-link rattled as she shoved her into it.

A correctional officer stood by the far wall, watching in that detached way guards do, alert, but not getting involved unless blood was drawn.

"You think you’re better than us because you talk loud?" Brenda hissed, shoving Rachel’s back against the fence. "You’re just a mouth that needs shutting."

My chest tightened.

I’d seen this before—someone cornered. Someone stronger, deciding how far to push it. And everyone else pretending not to see, because stepping in only made things worse.

This was the part where I stayed out of it. My rule from day one.

Rachel’s shoulder hit the fence again.

Something inside me snapped.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I moved.

I stepped between them, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wasn't big or intimidating.

Everyone stopped, surprised. I looked Brenda dead in the eye, my voice trembling but steady. "It’s not worth it, Brenda. If you get another infraction, you’re hitting the hole for a month. Is she really worth your freedom?"

Brenda stared at me. She'd expected screaming, not a quiet girl who met her gaze and spoke truth. The tension dissipated. Brenda scoffed and shoved my shoulder, not hard enough to knock me down, but enough to make her point.

“Mind your own business,” she muttered.

Then she leaned in, voice low enough that only I could hear.

“Next time, I won’t say it twice.” Brenda said, shoving me aside as she walked away, slinging curses.

Rachel eyed me. "Why’d you do that?"

"I don't like bullies."

But the truth was I didn’t want to be the kind of person who watched and did nothing again.

***

That night, when the lights snapped off, the guard’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Count’s clear.” Keys dragged along bars as he walked past each cell.

I was lying on my bunk, staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling, when I heard something.

I looked down and saw a folded piece of paper that’d been slipped into my cell.

I slid off the bed and picked it up.

Chloe, You’re either brave or stupid. I’m still deciding. —R

I grinned.

***

A few days later, in the library, Rachel stood across from me, flipping a book open without reading a single page.

“You always hang here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m joining you.”

I glanced up. She smirked. “Don’t make it weird.”

The only sound was the turning of pages and distant voices.

“You don’t talk much,” she said after a minute.

“I don’t need to.”

Rachel snorted. “Must be nice.”

I looked up again. “What does that mean?”

“People expect things when you talk,” she said. “Entertainment. Trouble.”

She tapped the edge of the book against the table. “If I’m quiet, people assume something’s wrong. If I’m loud…” She shrugged. “They still think something's wrong.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

Rachel let out a short humorless laugh. “Yeah. Well. That’s kind of my brand now.”

I studied her for a moment. “You don’t have to be like that all the time.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine.

“Don’t I?” she said.

For a second, she looked like she was going to say more.

Instead, she leaned back in her chair.

“Anyway,” she said, louder now, “you’re boring. But I think I like it.”

I shook my head, but couldn’t help smiling.

****

By the time the seasons shifted and the Upstate New York winter turned the correctional facility’s windows into frosted frames of white, we were inseparable.

Behind the supply shed, the wind cut through the yard, carrying the clang of a gate opening.

We stood closer than usual, pretending not to notice.

Rachel, always loud in public, seemed quiet when no one was watching.

"So… this is probably a bad idea."

"Probably," I said.

She nodded.

Then, she reached down and hooked her pinky finger around mine.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I looked at our hands, then at her.

She didn't look back.

I turned my hand, letting my fingers fold around hers and relaxed my shoulders. Not realizing how tense they'd been.

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for days.

We learned to exist in broken fragments. Conversations cut short by counts, touches broken by passing guards, everything hidden, the second keys came too close.

Those small, secret touches became more meaningful than any I’d ever known.

***

The trouble began during visitation. Rachel’s mother, Diane, a woman as rigid as a church pew, had come to visit. I was sitting at a nearby table, trying to look busy with a book, when I heard Diane’s voice raise.

“I don't understand this, Rachel," Diane said. "You’ve been through enough. Why are you complicating your life with… this? With her?"

Rachel paled. "Mom, don't."

"I'm looking out for you," Diane insisted, her eyes flicking toward me with disgust. "You’re already in a place where your reputation is ruined. Do you really need to add this to the list of your mistakes?”

“I don't need your approval,” Rachel shouted back.

"I didn't raise you like this, Rachel! This is a phase, a side effect of this wretched place." Diane leaned over the table, eyes narrowed. Then she doubled over, struggling to breathe.

Rachel stood up, arms reaching out.

"Mom, are you okay," Rachel said, her voice trembling.

“It’s just my AFib acting up, don’t try to change the subject,” she barked.

"Please calm down, she’s the only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m enough and this isn't a phase."

"It’s an embarrassment," Diane spat. She caught my eye—a cold, piercing glare that made me feel like I was ten years old again and caught stealing candy.

Rachel left in tears. She spent the next day pacing her cell. I tried to see her, but she didn't want to talk.

***

That night the lights in the corridor dimmed to a tired glow, buzzing faintly overhead. Somewhere down the wing, a guard’s footsteps moved at a steady rhythm, keys faintly clinking with each pass.

I was lying on my bunk around midnight when I heard it.

A scrape.

I sat up.

Another sound. Closer.

Then, outside my door, a whisper.

“Chloe.”

My breath hitched.

Rachel.

“What are you doing?” My bare feet, cold on the concrete.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Rachel said. “I needed to see you. Shift change is at twelve-ten,” she whispered. “They pass here at twelve-oh-three.”

“You’ve been timing them?”

“Yeah.”

“Rachel… if they catch you out here—”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” I whispered. “They sent Brenda to solitary for three weeks just for being in the wrong corridor after count. No visits. No yard. Nothing.”

She didn’t respond.

“And you’re already on thin ice,” I added.

“I said I know,” she murmured, softer this time. But she didn’t leave.

I stared at her. “How’d you even get out here?”

“I’ve been working on that,” she said. “The latch doesn’t catch all the way if you give it some help.”

“Help?”

“Dental floss in the mechanism during lockup,” she murmured. “Take it out later, it looks normal.”

A door slammed somewhere down the corridor.

We froze.

Footsteps.

My pulse jumped. “Rachel—go.”

“I know,” she whispered, but didn’t move.

The guard's flashlight beam sliced down the corridor.

We reacted at the same time. Rachel slipped backward into her cell, I dropped onto my bunk, face turned away, breath locked in my chest.

The beam moved along the row. Cell by cell.

My lungs seized.

It paused near my cell. I didn’t breathe.

Footsteps continued. Only when they faded completely did I sit up again.

Rachel was pressed against her door on the other side, silent except for the shallow rise of her breath.

Neither of us spoke.

Then, softly, through the wall: “That was stupid,” she whispered.

A pause.

“…but I had to see you.”

***

They called my name the next day during count.

Not the usual routine call.

“Carter. Report.”

My stomach lurched.

The administrative office smelled like stale coffee. A ceiling fan clicked, pushing warm air around.

The officer didn’t waste any time. “We’ve had some concerns,” he said, flipping open a folder. “About inmate Rodriguez.”

Rachel.

“We know her cell’s been compromised,” he continued. “Lock’s been tampered with. She’s been out after hours.”

I said nothing.

He looked at me. “You work in medical, and you’ve earned trust. So, I’ll ask you directly.”

He leaned forward.

“We know Rodriguez has been tampering with her cell. Tell us what you’ve seen.”

I swallowed hard and my left eye twitched.

I remembered the way her voice softened when she said my name in the dark. Would they throw her in solitary for this?

Then I thought about early parole. About walking out of here months sooner.

All I had to do was tell the truth.

“Chloe,” he said. “Help us do this the easy way.”

The easy way.

I had spent my whole life choosing that. Staying quiet and letting things happen as long as they didn’t touch me.

My stomach churned.

If I spoke, I'd walk out of here sooner.

If I didn’t—

“I haven’t seen anything,” I said.

The officer studied me for a long time before closing the folder.

“Think carefully,” he said. “Because if we find out otherwise, it won’t just fall on her.”

“I understand.”

But I didn’t take it back.

As I stepped back out into the hallway, I felt eyes on me.

Brenda leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

She smirked, like she knew something I didn’t.

Then she turned away.

Somehow, that felt worse than if she’d said something.

****

I’d been assigned to work in the medical wing that afternoon.

The smell of bleach in the infirmary stung my eyes.

Diane arrived struggling to breathe, her face turning gray. Panic flooded her eyes.

Somewhere behind me, an alarm sounded, unanswered.

No staff. No time.

I moved without thinking, helping her into a seated position. I knew the protocol and had been trained for emergencies. I grabbed the oxygen tank, checked the levels, and placed the mask over her face.

"Breathe, Diane," I said. "Focus on me. Just breathe."

She looked at me, her eyes clouded with pain and confusion. A flicker of recognition passed through the fear. She tried to push the mask away, but I held it steady.

"I’m not going to let anything happen to you," I whispered.

For five minutes, I stayed there, keeping her calm, monitoring her erratic pulse until the medical staff burst through the doors. As the nurses took over, Diane gripped my sleeve. Her fingers dug in, not with hatred, but with desperation. She didn't let go until the gurney was wheeled toward the exit where an ambulance was waiting.

***

I found Rachel behind the supply shed that night, the cold biting through both of us.

“So, they talked to you,” she said before I could speak.

Of course they had.

“They asked what I knew,” I said.

Her jaw tightened. “And?”

I held her gaze. “I told them nothing.”

She stared at me like I’d said something in another language.

“You’re an idiot,” Rachel said quietly.

“I know.”

“You’re up for early parole,” she said. “You could’ve been out of here in months.”

“I know.”

A sharp breath left her. “Then why would you—”

“Because I’m not invisible anymore,” I said.

That stopped her.

The wind cut between us, making me shiver.

“And because I wasn’t going to let them take you down for it,” I added.

“You’re just making this place harder for yourself,” she said.

“Yeah,” I admitted. Then, quieter: “But I helped your mom, too.”

Rachel huffed a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head.

“I had no idea,” she said. “You really are something else.”

And she gave me an unexpected hug.

***

Diane returned to visit a few days later.

Rachel went to the booth, looking nervous. I watched from across the room. Diane was sitting there, looking pale and fragile, her regal aura softened by the effects of her heart episode.

Their visit seemed to be going well.

After a while, Rachel stood up and walked toward me. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with tears. She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the table.

"Chloe," Rachel said, her voice shaking. "My mom wants to talk to you."

I approached hesitantly. Diane looked up. The coldness was gone, replaced by a weary, heavy look. She didn't stand, but nodded at me to sit down.

"I wanted to talk to you," Diane said, her voice strained. "I know you are the one who saved me… that otherwise I might not have made it."

I nodded, not knowing what to say. "I just did what anyone would have done."

"No," Diane countered. "You could have walked away, but you didn't. You showed my daughter more loyalty than I have lately."

She looked at Rachel, then back at me.

Her eyes dropped briefly to where our hands were linked, then looked away, her lips pursed.

“I don’t understand this,” she said. “I’ve spent my life," Diane continued, "believing there’s only one way to live. Helping Rachel stay on the right path.”

“I’m on the right path. I wish you could understand that,” Rachel replied.

“I’m trying,” she said. “But trying doesn’t mean I accept it,” Diane said, turning to me. “But it means I can’t ignore what you did—or what you clearly mean to Rachel.”

“Whether you accept it or not, I love her,” Rachel responded.

And in that moment, nothing about the prison changed—the walls, the bars, the gray light.

But something inside it did.

I’d spent my whole life believing survival meant making myself quiet and easier to overlook.

But sitting there, with Rachel's hand in mine and everyone watching—for once, it didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like being seen.

BIO: Barb DeMoney is a writer whose work spans romance, horror, comedy, thriller, and mystery. Her stories have appeared in Micromance Magazine, Flash Phantoms, Quotidian Bagatelle, Rat Bag Lit, and KissMet Quarterly, among other publications. When not writing, Barb enjoys hiking, yoga, reading, attending concerts, and spending time with her family and dogs.

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