I missed one step.
It happened last May. It must have been around 3am. I woke up, felt the stingy urge to go to the toilet, crumbled out of bed and zombied to the stairs.
Our bedroom is upstairs. Our toilet is down. In between, guess what, are the stairs. A wooden U-turn made of 15 steps. I have walked them up and down countless times. Night and day, summer and winter, in a hurry, on the phone, I have vacuum-cleaned those steps, I have sat on them to comfort our oldest dog when there’s been thunder.
But that night, barely awake, I missed one. The first one, to be specific.
Sleepy and sloppy, my right foot came down but barely touched the wooden edge of that oh-so-treacherous first step. My heel slips into emptiness. Uh oh… In a split second my left foot stumbles somewhere around the third of fourth step but can’t slow me down. One hand tries to hold onto the wall to no avail and the other tries to grab the banister only to rip 3 leaves of our climbing plant and I really can’t stop and my right foot clashes with the fifth step oh god I am gaining momentum: I am out of control and I can’t stop and I am going to tumble all the way down. My brain panics. It realizes we are going down, hard. So, it overcompensates and decides the best course of action is to jump for it. Yes: jump. I jumped full steam ahead on a staircase in the middle of the night.
For a moment, it seemed like a good idea. Specifically, during the first half of that jump. I am going up, forward, flying through darkness like a domestic wannabe Batman. Then I understand in what conundrum I am: one unmovable wall coming my way and no control-tower to guide my landing.
The inevitable happens. First one hand, then the other, then the rest of my glorious flimsy body crashes on the wall. However, I am no Batman. No Spiderman either: I slide down. This is a very sad moment in my life. A moment of loneliness. A moment where instinct yells to my hands “godammit hold onto that wall or you’ll break both ankles upon landing” but the laws of physics retort: “nah”. So, I slide for like seems forever. I actually burn my skin of my right wrist because that’s how hard I am trying to magically glue myself to the rough wood panel.
And, finally, rogue rocket Carrison-1 touches ground. Houston, we have a Spaniard. Happy end: both my feet land perfectly on the same step and the nightmare ends.
Just kiddin’. They choose a different step each. My instinct screams “do not put your weight on your feet you fool! Flex your knees and just collapse there! Do not-“ but nobody is listening. I am too busy obviously trying to secure myself on both feet and, guess what: the one on the lower step wins. Here we go again, stumbling down, gaining speed, hands flying around like a puppet on amphetamines playing “Marco Polo”. But this time I don’t jump, I don’t have time, I pancake myself on the next wall so hard that it absorbs my momentum, my inertia, my pride and my right shoulder.
Since I probably woke up the whole house I try to limit the humiliation by shouting: “I’m fine”. Naturally, my lovely and very-recently-woken-up wife replies: “are you sure?”
It’s around 3am. I am face planted on the wall in the middle of my staircase. I can’t feel my right shoulder. My right wrist burns. The youngest dog came to check what game I am playing. There are some leaves on the steps. And I still need to pee. So, no, I’m not sure.
[Originally published on Fb page]