I sat, transfixed, barely aware of the tread of the stair, the polished wood, cold and hard against my thighs. Bizarrely fascinated, I examined the scene below. Surely the angles were all wrong. Did legs really bend that way? Where was his left arm? And the blood. So much blood. Spreading slowly across the floorboards, glistening in the moonlight that shone, like a stage light, through the glass of the front door. Macabre, but also strangely beautiful.
The click of a switch. The harsh glare of the light, extra bright,
to
prevent
accidents
on the steep
Victorian staircase.
I felt the warmth of her presence. Became increasingly aware of her arms as they wrapped tightly around my body. I let go, let myself collapse, melt into the arms that held me. Shaking, but no longer fearful.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay” she whispered, holding me tight, rubbing my back and cradling my head in her arms. Gently rocking me, back and forth in that familiar, comforting motion – mother to child, now child to mother.
In time, as my shaking abated, I turned my head, looked deeply into her eyes. I watched the smile as it crept across her face, grew broader as she looked down on the mess below. Breaking the silence she spoke in that little girl, baby voice he liked her to use, despite her teenage years. Mocking. Full of hate, “Oh daddy! Poor daddy! Are you hurt daddy? Did you trip and fall daddy? You have to be careful on the stairs daddy. Silly daddy.” And with increasing venom, “Dead daddy.”
Turning back to me, her voice so calm, self-assured, relieved, “It’s okay mum. He can’t hurt us anymore.”
And for the first time in years, our laughter replaced the fear, as it echoed through the stairwell.
Burnside Writers Group 