So Friday I was carrying a box down the stairs, missed a step, sprained my ankle so bad I can't walk on it and it's swollen. I thought it was broken, but am glad it isn't.
My problem here, and the reason for this blog post, are the stairs. I write horror, I'm not afraid of much. I dislike porcelain dolls, marionettes, gnomes, and now I add stairs to this list. I can't tell you how many times stairs have tried to murder me. The worst serial killer I know, stairs.
It really is too bad you can't prosecute inanimate objects for attempted murder, because I know a couple flights of stairs that should be behind bars. The bruises I've suffered from falling up or down are numerous and make me see the color purple, often. The scratches from wooden stairs that haven't been sanded well still burn and itch. My butt cheeks clench as I walk down and up and down and up, memories of all the times I've fallen, received bruises so bad I couldn't comfortably sit on the toilet seat... any toilet seat... even those weird ones that are all plush and cushy (those are the oddest toilet seats ever).
I feel like evil resides in every flight of stairs. I feel like every flight is a little possessed. I feel the eyes of evil watching me, waiting for me to take that third step down, or that last step up.
I have tossed laundry everywhere, tripping over the lip of stairs. Underwear and bras exposed for everyone to see. I have lost smoothies and frapps slipping on the last step and painting the walls with soft caramel colors or bright pinks and purples. I have embarrassed sailors with my curses as I've fallen up or down.
So, stairs, they are evil and maybe just maybe I will write a short story about one evil flight of stairs. Be careful out there. This is a warning. They grind their teeth and wait, hoping to sink they canines into your tender ankles and break a few legs.
My problem here, and the reason for this blog post, are the stairs. I write horror, I'm not afraid of much. I dislike porcelain dolls, marionettes, gnomes, and now I add stairs to this list. I can't tell you how many times stairs have tried to murder me. The worst serial killer I know, stairs.
It really is too bad you can't prosecute inanimate objects for attempted murder, because I know a couple flights of stairs that should be behind bars. The bruises I've suffered from falling up or down are numerous and make me see the color purple, often. The scratches from wooden stairs that haven't been sanded well still burn and itch. My butt cheeks clench as I walk down and up and down and up, memories of all the times I've fallen, received bruises so bad I couldn't comfortably sit on the toilet seat... any toilet seat... even those weird ones that are all plush and cushy (those are the oddest toilet seats ever).
I feel like evil resides in every flight of stairs. I feel like every flight is a little possessed. I feel the eyes of evil watching me, waiting for me to take that third step down, or that last step up.
I have tossed laundry everywhere, tripping over the lip of stairs. Underwear and bras exposed for everyone to see. I have lost smoothies and frapps slipping on the last step and painting the walls with soft caramel colors or bright pinks and purples. I have embarrassed sailors with my curses as I've fallen up or down.
So, stairs, they are evil and maybe just maybe I will write a short story about one evil flight of stairs. Be careful out there. This is a warning. They grind their teeth and wait, hoping to sink they canines into your tender ankles and break a few legs.
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