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I drag myself up the staircase, knowing I’ve had way too much to drink. Each step is laborious; my thoughts are fuzzy from mixing Motrin, Ativan, and far too many glasses of wine. I stop on the turned landing at the stair’s midpoint to catch my breath; my legs feel weighted down, as though they’re encased in cement pavers.
As I near the top stair, the sock’s pinky toe’s fabric on my left foot—yes, the one with the Y on it—catches on the edge of the stair, causing me to trip. When the slippery sock hits the next step, both legs buckle under my body weight, making my jaw bang against the top stair.
My right foot tries to stop the fall two stairs down, but I slip and slide further.
Down.
In seconds, I try to reach up and grasp the banister rail. My hand misses and becomes entangled between two spindles. There’s an audible snap of my wrist.
Down. Slow-motion, down.
Somehow my head is at an awkward angle; I view my kneecap in a strange position as I fall three more stairs.
Down.
The staircase’s mid-landing turn interrupts my descent. I brace myself as my face and shoulder slam into the wall and both of my feet connect with the banister’s metal spindles simultaneously.
An excruciating, sharp pain seizes my hip and back.
Down.
I tumble in a half somersault down the remaining stairs to the bottom of the staircase.
My fall comes to a halt with a sickening thud when I land on the floor. I lie twisted like a pretzel.
I’m still.
Stuck stiff in my spot.
I’m down.
Immediately, I tell myself to get up, but I realize none of my body parts will obey my commands. I contemplate ways to rescue myself from this predicament, such as calling out for help or using my smartphone. Unfortunately, the phone is still upstairs in its charger.
As I think about other possibilities, darkness envelopes my world, and I pass out.
***
I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious.
I try moving but can’t.
I try stretching my hands open and can’t. My toes refuse to move. Hmm, I can’t feel my toes.
I realize I can’t feel any part of my body.
Odd. I don’t feel any pain. The sharp pain that seemed seconds ago yet an eternity has vanished.
As you can see, one of my eyelids is out of commission, so I try the other one. Through its slit, I make out the moon’s shadow from the second-floor skylight on the wall. I sense a dull green light coming from behind me, which must be from the microwave clock in the kitchen. We still have electricity; it’s not another rolling blackout across the city. That must mean the electrical grid was not attacked and no electromagnetic pulse was detonated in the atmosphere.
Has it been minutes or an hour or several days?
I attempt to speak out—I want to call out to Alexa to get someone to come, but I remember her demise when I threw her against the fireplace wall. With false determination, I try to pronounce her name, but can’t speak loud enough to awaken the units in the bedrooms or office; I can’t go to the kitchen and press the access button on the fridge to alert anyone.
Are you there? Can you help me? Please come and tell me I’m okay. Please help me get up. Can you call for an ambulance or something, someone? Could you call Denny for me? Maybe he’s in bed, and you’ll have to wake him up.
I force my slitted eye to open more and can only see the bottom of an ugly sock directly in front of me; no happy letters are visible. Strangely enough, I’ve never seen my foot from this angle. In my stupor, the sock’s weird colors taunt me; the individual appendages appear to be waving at me as if pointing to the havoc the pinky toe caused. I want to yell an obscenity at the torturous toe, but words don’t form in my mouth. I try to look at the sides of the sock but can’t focus. The view is fuzzy and reddish looking. I can’t see farther away than my awkward foot.
I still feel no pain, nothing.
I concentrate on how I got here. I recall drinking with Zoey. I go further back in my memory: sleeping, silly socks, taking Motrin and Ativan. Being in Dennis’s office. Right, I remember now. Denny is gone—he left me here alone.
I curse under my breath at the man, my husband.
Ah, yes. I’m alone.
I don’t feel in control. In fact, I feel out of control, because I’m lying here in the dark in a perilous position, and I can’t move or feel anything.
I have no control.
Can you call Zoey for me? My parents or sister? Or Jeremy? Maybe he’s already on his way over here. He’s never been to our place before, but I’m sure he can figure out where we live.
After closing my one working eye for several seconds and opening it again, I hone in on my hand. Do you notice that it’s a grayish color of blue? A blue as if it were dead, and no blood is in it. Maybe the lack of lighting is making it look surreal.
***
I think I passed out and woke up again. Several times.
***
This time, there’s a faint but annoying beeping sound that toys with me—I recognize it’s Alexa’s daily alarm in our bedroom telling us to get up. It must be past dawn, but I can’t seem to open either of my eyes.
If it’s morning, almost twelve hours have passed since this whole mess started with those two girls on the swings and that odd sound. How long have I been stuck in this position?
An inner darkness envelops me again.
***
Back and forth I flow from consciousness to unconsciousness; my brain processes events and scenes throughout my life: playing with my sister, Dad tickling me on the living room floor, Mom helping me with a school project, Silvia chasing me in the backyard, Denny playfully kissing my ear, and so on, memory after memory. Oh, how I love Denny. I love his smile, the way he laughs, and his silly jokes. Memories float by of Mark and Melissa at a company barbecue. Laughing at a bar with Zoey and a temporary boyfriend. Hundreds of memories quickly come and go through my confused brain.
The flashes start taking a turn to the negative: me stealing a piece of candy at the food store at age eight, lying to my parents to get Silvia in trouble, cheating on a college test by copying Rochelle’s paper, fantasizing about having sex with the cute guy at the grocery store, plotting schemes of mean things I can do to coworkers to get ahead, my hatred toward Aunt Amy. Oh yes, not wanting to be pregnant, wanting an abortion. And Jeremy—do I dare go there?
Dark secrets and thoughts. Evil things you don’t know about me. Things I would never tell anyone, ever. Secrets. Bad thoughts and intentions.
I don’t know. I’m so confused.
Where is this all leading me?
I try to move again but can’t.
I try to see or hear but no longer can.
I try to move my tongue; I only feel an unbelievable dryness and stiffness. I want to speak, but there’s no creation of words, no sounds produced.
Are you still here with me? Can you help me, please?
I feel a rush—a rush of blackness. Not the blackness of being in a dark room where there’s no window, but an utter darkness and an outer darkness.
Darkness where I can’t tell whether my eyes are open or shut, whether I’m alive or dead.
I start to panic. I try to take a deep breath but can’t fill my lungs with air.
Am I dying? Am I dead? Am I to ever have control again?
The blackness is even blacker—if that’s possible.
There’s an emptiness in the air around me. A chasm I can’t explain. The lack of noise makes me more confused and frightened.
I’m scared.
Lonely.
Unfathomable, unutterable loneliness.
I could call out your name, but for some strange reason, I have this abnormal sensation that you’re no longer here. Where did you go? Did you abandon me and go to someone else, leaving me all by myself?
No one is nearby. I feel no life around me.
Where am I?
I sense I’m at the edge of a dark abyss and starting to fall into it. I feel empty; I feel cold and hot, supremely uncomfortable. Hungry, yet not knowing what would satisfy me. Everything is at extremes, simultaneously—I’ve never felt like this before!
Right before I pass out again, I think of Denny. I love you, Den. I’m sorry.
***
I may be conscious again but am unsure. All senses seem to have vanished—no feeling, smelling, seeing, hearing, tasting, or being—yet at the same time, powerful whirlwinds of physical, mental, and spiritual anguish encompass my entire being. Terrible. Unimaginable. Disgusting. Overwhelmingly frightening. Relentless.
No, I feel—something is wrong!
I shouldn’t be here.
Am I? Am I in . . . ?