A Story About Falling

25 Jan

Another writing prompt from my course with Alice Bradley, in which I am a full week behind because I hate myself and my dreams in roughly equal measure. 

I have the falling dream a lot, which is really just a science-y feeling of drifting into sleep I guess? But I don’t fall off a cliff or even off patio trying to pick a rare flower like that girl in The Boy Who Could Fly. I trip down a set of stairs and break my freaking face off. Every single time, you guys. I have a pathological fear of breaking my teeth off into nubs which is one element of the dream but there’s also the super original element of losing control.

In my waking hours, I pick my way carefully down any set of stairs like a goat. During my senior year of high school, I went on a kiddy tour of Europe. Of course we went to the Eiffel Tour and of course I went to the top, because you have to. But the elevator doesn’t take you down – only up. I can still feel the flat panic of clinging to the rail and the metal grate stairs kind of swimming in my line of vision while my best friend screamed my name. Oh god. 

I am not delicate. I am not nimble. And I am deathly afraid to fall and hurt my face. It’s not like I have a particularly special face, though I do have quite nice teeth. Basically I don’t have much to lose in the visage department but every night, there I am – falling down someone’s uncle’s basement stairs, wondering if anyone I know has a bell tower I can live in for the rest of my days. 

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