Down the stairs
Writing Prompt No. 3
There were days where all he could do was stand and look from the top.
Every step down was an effort. His breathing would quicken as small beads of sweat formed quickly across his forehead. Tiny rivulets ran down his face getting into his eyes and dribbling across his lips. The taste was salty. Salt made from his own body. He remembered being told once that the tears made through crying, emotional tears, had a different formulation to tears made from physical pain. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He felt a hand on his back just between his shoulder blades. Turning he saw no one. The presence had gone. But the memory was close. The sweat began to spread through the underarms of his t-shirt and started running down his back. The dog ran up the stairs and started licking at his face. He closed his eyes and pushed the animal away. Months had passed since he’d reached the bottom of the stairs. The cat they’d bought from the local rescue centre sat on the bottom step. Waiting.
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