My head is pounding. It’s the first thought that rattles my brain.
It hurts so much, I don’t even think I know where I am. And it’s black. Everything is black, black, black.
I squint into the inkiness, trying to orient myself. There’s a soft, fluffy texture against my cheek. Am I in bed? Did I go to bed?
No. Too hard to be my bed. And my legs and arms hurt way too much. I try to turn a little, but my hip screams in pain.
I slowly feel around with my right hand, trying to place myself.
I wriggle my toes, glad to see I can still do that. I feel something behind me, and now that I realise it, my head is against something hard. It’s not a pillow.
And what’s on my feet?
Slippers.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and that’s when I realise it.
The stairs. The slippers.
The damn slippers.
I’ve fallen.
My heart races. It doesn’t do to fall at this age when you’re home alone. Terror constricts my heart. My worst fear has happened. I’m doomed. I’ve seen the commercials. I know how this ends. And those little bracelet thingamajigs always seemed like extortion – until now. Now, I wish so badly I had one. Why didn’t I buy one? All those times I worried about falling, I didn’t think ahead enough to buy one of those bracelets. How could I have been so careless?
I take a deep breath, my head still aching. Amos is sitting beside me, and I do feel bad now for soaking him. How long have I been here? How long has it been since I fell?
I think back to the bathtub, to throwing water on Amos. It was morning. I was thinking about going outside.
And now it’s dark, so dark without any lights on.
It must be night. I must’ve been here for a long, long time. My head is surging with pain. Am I bleeding? It’s too dark to tell if there’s any blood.
How much longer will I be here? How much longer until someone finds me? Panic races in my chest, my head aching and whirling as the fear rises up.
I’ll be a dried-up, disintegrated carcase by then. Amos too. When there’s no one to miss you, it’s a pretty long time until you’re discovered.
That feeling creeps in, and I try to shove it down but can’t.
Horror. Sheer horror.
I’m afraid. Not of death or dying, but of wasting away, powerless, here on the floor of my own home. How long until I starve to death or dehydrate? How long will it take?
A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I taste the saltiness.
I’ve got to get up. I have to pull myself up. I can do this.
I take a deep breath and focus on trying to sit up. I’m on my stomach, my cheek on the floor. My hip still throbs like there are a thousand knives in it. Is it broken? Are my legs broken?
It’s hard to tell. I don’t know anything anymore.
I take another breath and tell myself to count to ten. I do. And then I try to roll so that my arms are free. I need to get myself to my knees, need to prop myself so I can pull myself to my feet. That’s all I need to do. I can do it.
I tell myself to focus, the darkness still surrounding me and making me nervous. But I have no choice. It’s do or die, quite literally. I position myself so my hands are underneath my shoulders and get ready to do the most important push-up of my life. I was never good at push-ups. Fitness, brute strength, they weren’t my strong suits. Still, left with no choice, I inhale until my lungs ache and I push with all my might.
My arms, flabby and underused, give out. It’s a lot different lifting a cup of tea to your mouth versus lifting your entire upper body.
My lips touch the floor as I tumble back down, and I want to sob. My arms ache, and shifting has only hurt my hip more. I want to wallow in pity and scream at the unforgiving, merciless universe. But what good will that do?
Maybe this is how it ends, I think. And maybe it would serve me right. Maybe the universe isn’t merciless – maybe it’s completely just in its dishing out of punishment. I’ll spend days in hell, alone, starving and thirsting and crying and hurting. Maybe this is the penance I’ve been heading towards all along. Maybe I’ll pay the piper after all.
This saddens me at first, but then it angers me. There are plenty of people who have done horrible things and lived fine lives. Why do I have to pay? Why me?
Not me, I think. I don’t lose.
So I try again.
And again.
My arms get weaker each time. They ache from the strain, and I’m no closer to getting up than when I started.
Breathless and exhausted, I cry out in frustration, scaring Amos away momentarily. Eventually, he comes back, though, the only trustworthy friend in my life.
Too bad he’s going to die because of my wretched mistake.
I mix up my approach, deciding to try to roll to my side and kick my way up. I think about army crawling towards the sofa.
I turn myself around so my arms are on the stairs, thinking I can pull myself up. This goes on for what must be hours but feels like several eternities.
At some point, I drift off to asleep, exhaustion and fear mixing into a sleep-inducing potion. I know I may never wake up and although that terrifies me, it’s also a relief. Sometimes, it feels good to just let go.
However, in the morning, when I open my eyes, my head still aching, I’m so happy to see the sight before me.
Help and hope have arrived – but it doesn’t take long to realise it looks a lot different than I expected.