Stairs

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something quick I wrote one night. Based loosely on experience but not true.

Submitted: December 18, 2015

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Submitted: December 18, 2015

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“I fell down the stairs.”

That was the excuse. The excuse she always used to explain the bruises that appeared frequently on different parts of her body.

Me and my mother were out shopping for dinner when we’d bumped into a friend of hers. He’d asked where she got her black eye. She’d replied with that. She always did. He didn’t believe her, that much was obvious, but he chose not to push her as he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

The truth was, she’d got the black eye the previous night. Her and my step-father had got into an argument, as always, and that, as it so often does, had resulted in him hitting her. I had been sitting on the stairs the whole time. Not being able to do anything other than listen. It pained me. But what could I do? I’d tried to persuade her to leave but she wouldn’t listen, saying that he’d find them anyway. Thinking about it, that was probably true.

That night, we had dinner as usual and then I retreated to my room to finish my homework. Eventually, I heard the sound of raised voices coming from downstairs. After a while, they began to get louder and I heard the pounding of footsteps on the wooden staircase. I opened my door slightly and peered out of the crack just in time to see him slap her across the face and then yank on her hair.

The next thing I know I was staring down, a wooden bat in my hand with my mother standing next to me in shock, and my step-father’s lifeless body lying at the bottom.

We never told anyone the truth about that night. Every time we are asked how he dies, we just look at each other for a moment, small smiles on our faces and say in unison:

“He fell down the stairs.”


© Copyright 2019 Chloe Stockdale. All rights reserved.

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