In my husband and my first apartment we had two staircases. The back staircase was creepy as hell but a lot closer to the parking lot.
As I leave to make the hour trip to Albany to work at a bank I hate. Before I can even lock the door. My legs give out. I ragdoll. I fall down the hard wooden stairs all the way down to the bottom. Did I mention we live on the second floor? It was quite a few stairs! I land in the mud in our backyard, right next to our chain link fence. My foot feels wrong. I try to stand and pain shoots up my leg. I yell for John (my husband) I'm covered in mud and spiderwebs. People walk by and stare at me. I'm crying. They just stare. People suck. When my husband hears me he helps me up the stairs. I take off my black tights. My foot looks wrong.
I call into work and they are actually mad at me. Fuck me for falling, right?
We decide to go to the hospital once the bruises start to show. Once there I discover that my love has only brought me one shoe. I snap misplaced anger at him. I'm sorry. Why do you put up with me? Yelling about a shoe. Honestly.
My foot is broken. We have no insurance.
Fuck that back staircase.
Fuck Chiari.
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