White Stairs

My mom told me about a childhood dream - maybe I should say nightmare that she had. It inspired me to write about it. If you're too dumb to notice, her mom was a druggie, alcoholic, and smoker. She abused my mom and died at a young age, leaving my mom at

 

My body stiffened when I turned to see the ominous looking house. The wind rustled and the brown and red leaves danced around my worn out sneakers. I zipped up my tattered jacket all the way and pulled my hair out of my eyes. I couldn’t remember why I was here or how I’d gotten here. I’d never seen this old, dark house before in my life yet it seemed familiar.

 The three story home towered over me. As my eyes took in everything about it, my feet drove me closer to the door. The bitter wind nipped at my cheeks and ears. Fall had obviously visited this small neighborhood. Before I knew it, I had reached the tall door. I stared at it for several minutes, examining the old wood and the cracking paint. My hand reached out and clutched the cold handle. My fingers gripped around it so tightly, I watched them turn white. With a twist and a push, the door swung open. The rasp of it filled my ears and echoed in my mind. It would forever remain there.

 With one step after another, I had entered the house; not bothering to shut the door, for it was my only source of light. The room I was in was big. The walls were painted a dark, blood red and the floors were a dusty, faded brown. Ever piece of furniture was covered with a white sheet except for a black, big piano in the back of the room. Next to the piano were a set of stairs that led to the second floor. I took special interest to the stairs for they were white, the only bright thing in the room. I walked closer for a better look. My eyes widened as I took in what I saw. The stairs were white but what was spilled and splattered on the steps was something I didn’t want to see. Orange, white, and green pills were scattered on every step. Ashes and cigarette buds were sprinkled everywhere, tainting the beautiful white. The familiar smell of alcohol swirled around my nose and horrible thoughts and memories filled my head. Red whine dripped from each step. What was this? Why was this here? I could not go up there. These were signs. But yet, I had no control over my legs and I silently climbed these stairs.

Reaching the second floor, I was now gasping for air and reconnection with my inner self-control. When walking up the steps, remembrance of my childhood was very colorful. Every repressed memory was opened and every painful lie was unlocked. Nothing was in this room, only a pair of white stairs.

 I stayed in this room for a long time, scared. My body shook. My head spun. My breathing became audible. My eyes became wet and soon hot and salty tears ran down my pink cheeks. I wanted to run. Run out of this nightmarish residence.

  Suddenly, a sound broke the defenseless state I was in. My body tensed.

 It was a creak. It was a repeating creak that was very faint. It was coming from upstairs. Every thought I had against going up there was ruined and my curiosity that had gotten me in trouble every time got the best of me and I turned to walk up the stairs, only to stop once more and stare. Belts and brushes were spread around the staircase. Also, little toy vans were dispersed on each step.

 I let out a whimper and finally regained control over my legs and took a staggering step back. Everything meant something to me in a nasty way. The sound of belts cracking and of brushes hitting played in my mind, over and over and over again. The toy vans seemed to move as the room spun.

My body suddenly lurched forward and I ran up those steps. Something was up there that was doing this. As I reached the third floor, the creak was louder. I whipped my head around to see what it was but the creaking stopped. Her eyes met mine. Her lips spread apart as if she was trying to say something, only she didn’t. Her white, fragile hands gripped the two arms of an old wooden rocking chair tightly. The same black skirt and shirt hung to her skeleton-like body. Her dark, tangled hair moved ever so slightly. Her features were the same as I had remembered and her sad and desperate look was still etched into her skin. Only this time the look of disappointment dominated.

This time, I did not make a sound. I did not make a move. I did not feel sick. I felt the lost feeling of love return and my heart did the same little flop that it always did when I saw her. She continued to rock back and forth, back and forth. I hoped she would say something. She only stared at me. I decided to make the move.

“Momma? Is-Is that you?” My southern accent cracked. I was near to crying. I had said that sentence many times, not wanting it to be answered. Now it was all I wanted.

She did not answer, she just rocked.

I walked closer and her features became more detailed. I didn’t dare touch her, though.

“Momma…?” I trailed off. This was useless.

Author's Note

Not completed.

Reviews

[Tracie D'Angelo]

Not too bad! I like where the story is going. The only criticism I would have would be to watch your grammar and punctuation. Also, when the mom is found in the rocking chair I got a little confused as to where she was ~ a room, the hallway... It's very good though. Keep up the good work!