An ageing, ailing body doesn’t heal quickly. I think about calling an ambulance the next morning when I pop a few more pain pills and drag myself to the kitchen. I’m desperately thirsty and hungry, so I take care of those needs. My hips, legs, back and head are all stiff, but the painkillers ease the dreadful aches. I find a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter and take a swig.
Nothing’s broken. Maybe my bones are so flimsy that there was nothing to break. Or maybe it was some kind of miracle, I don’t know. But I survived. Against all the odds, I’m still here.
I don’t know how I feel about that, in truth. Breaking my neck on those stairs would’ve been an easy way to go. In some ways, it would have been easier to be at the end of this life of hardship, to not have to think anymore. I’m so tired, and not just from the fall. However, I’m still here, so I guess there’s no use in wishing it was over. The day will come, soon enough I’m sure, but not today. Not now. And so, I must trudge on again, as I’ve done for so long.
I need to clean myself up, take care of some hygiene, but I’m too weary, and to be honest, I’m too terrified to face those stairs again. I’ll tend to my needs later, when I’ve cooled my nerves.
After another swig of wine, I make my way to the window. I stare out at 312 Bristol Lane for the first time since the accident, thinking about it all. The decline, the sunshine-yellow woman who has all but disappeared. I think about her standing over me, about how she refused to help.
I think about how I want to hate her, how I want to get revenge – and yet, how I oddly understand.
Maybe I’m the one losing it. Of course, alcohol, painkillers and a potential concussion will probably do that to a person. Besides, even if I want revenge, I don’t think my limp and tortoise-slow speed would do me much good.
So, instead, I sit down in my favourite spot, rocking gently so as not to jar my bones. I look out the window, the sun shining softly through the clouds. Spring. A time of renewal, of rebirth. Despite my near-death experience, I don’t really feel anything like renewal. I feel like death, in reality.
It all looks the same, which makes sense. Of course it would look the same. Nothing has changed. Then again, it feels like everything is different. It seems almost eerie that there is no outward sign of the internal transformations and mutations that have occurred. It’s unsettling that the same picturesque building is housing what I now understand to be evil. I wonder if she’s been thinking about me. I wonder if she thinks I’m dead. Well, the joke’s on her. I’m still here. I’m still witnessing.
And witness I do.