Falling

As she fell, she waited for that moment people describe in stories, when their lives flash before their eyes, and everything they’ve ever done looms hauntingly large. But instead, all she felt were her bones being jolted and compressed with each thump against the rough carpet of the stairs. And all she heard was her teeth rattling, like marbles being shaken in a bag.

Bounce. Smack. Ooof. Her breath escaped her lungs as if trying to escape the pain, as she twisted and turned, limbs entangled, and eventually landed in a heap, narrowly missing the sharp corner edge of the hallway table.

She lay there, eyes shut and brow knitted into a line as she gathered her resolve, doing everything she could to ignore the fear taking root deep inside her tummy. There were more pressing things to worry about first. Was anything broken? Could she move? She didn’t do anything though, her body stock still as she listened to the pendulum of her great grandmother’s antique clock swooping back and forth in the silence. She didn’t actually know what she’d do if she was seriously hurt. How she’d cope, alone, and even more vulnerable while she healed. 

A single tear escaped, dribbling from the corner of her eye and pooling in the knotted hair at her temple.

She was tired. Tired all the way to her potentially broken bones.

That was her eighth fall down the stairs in as many weeks.

And there had been almost twice as many near misses.

She was covered in bruises, a kaleidoscope of reds, purples and blues mottling the flesh of her thighs, back and arms. Maybe, once again, she’d been lucky enough to escape only with more additions to the patchwork on her skin, and not with something more severe.

She turned all her attention to the fingers of her right hand. Start small and focus on the tinniest movements. She’d learned that after the first couple of falls. Trying to move her entire arm only risked more damage. She took a breath and willed life to her fingers. Just a twitch. That’s all she needed. Her jaw locked, teeth no longer rattling but instead, gritted together tight. The effort brought another tear to her eye, but before it could fall, she heard the tell tale creak of the loose floorboard in her bedroom.

The blood drained from her face. 

She shifted her attention back to listening, forgetting her attempts to move. She was imagining things. It was just the house, creaking like old houses do. And this was a very old house, afterall. Anyway, it was only natural she’d be skittish. She was shaken from the fall. Maybe she’d knocked her head on the way down.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps.

Oh god. 

She wasn’t imagining that. Of course, she wasn’t. But then she knew that already. She’d known that all along.

She had to get up. Get away.

Move fingers, goddammit. Move.

It was still there. Whatever it was. And it was coming down the stairs.