The Thirteenth Step

Wrote this whilst I was supposed to be studying for a chemistry test. Needless to say- writing is more of an escape than a chore, unlike chemistry. Plot twist in this one! *aggressive wink*

Her foot slips on the second step, with eleven to go. She’s eleven steps away from telling me we’re going to break up. I don’t understand why the spiralling staircases count in sets of 13, but I understand even less as to why that’s what I’m thinking about. The love of my life- though not reciprocated- is about to die. But there’s 13 steps, not 12 or 14. 13, and 11 more than she could do today. Than I could do today.

I don’t know why I don’t reach out to catch her. Maybe she’d stop falling if I did. Maybe she wouldn’t. I’ll never know now, history will always have it that she fell on the second step, with eleven to go. Until history doesn’t remember either, that is. History has to forget too, at some point.

Because history is merely thoughts. Many of them, an intricate construct that’s really not so intricate after all. Messily built, and never certain: history will crumble when the earth does and nothing will be remembered. Maybe that’s why I don’t reach out to catch her. This way? I’ll die her boyfriend. History will never know otherwise and I won’t oppose it.

0.07. Milliseconds, that is. I don’t count but I know. I know I’m 0.07 seconds past my chance to help her. I’m not going to help her. Down low, too slow. What an awful time to start muttering kids handshake games.

Up high, where she’ll be.
To the side, of her casket.
Down low,
Too slow.
I’m.
Not.
Going.
To.
Help her.

Her blonde hair splays out behind her and terror distorts her features. She doesn’t look human. She looks no more human than I feel. She’s a creature controlled by fear, as we all are.

Her head hits the floor, in a sickening thud. Blood seeps into the carpet and I wince. We had it cleaned last night. I sigh, before calling the ambulance. I don’t take my eyes of her lifeless corpse. She won’t wake up but she could. She could, she could. If I were to strike another blow- just to be certain- history will never know.

History won’t know that I pushed her.

History will know that I’m her loving boyfriend. I will always be her loving boyfriend. Because she never told me I wasn’t. She never made it to the thirteenth step. The stupid, uneven thirteenth step.

History will exsist -for at least as long as it affects me- the way I tell it.
Her foot slipped on the second step, with eleven to go.

And if anyone says otherwise? Well they might just fall too.

Second step, eleven to go.