Falling

October 15, 2010

I recently fell down a flight of stairs at work. Hard, uncarpeted stairs. Stairs with the metal-ridged scuffy tips that are supposed to prevent you from slipping off the edges. I never even made it to the edge to be saved. My first step was air and then I was flying head first towards the second floor landing, skinning my knee on those metal protectors and bruising my legs as I hit the last few steps and was stopped by a concrete wall.

I laid there for a moment, unsure of the damage, waiting for the shock to end and the pain to begin. Please, someone come into the stairwell and find me. Help me. I wished, hoped for the clicking sound of the door opening and footsteps rushing to my side. I didn’t want to get up on my own. Then I realized the odds of this happening were unlikely. I was in the back stairwell, furthest away from the main entrance and there was barely anyone in the office nowadays. All but about twenty-five employees remained after a series of lay-offs, and most now worked from home, too depressed to make the commute to the office and sit in their cubicles, surrounded by the emptiness of the others pressing in on their space, a reminder we are alone.

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