Possibly A New Story I Do?

As a kid, I memorized the way figures in my house moved.

I knew where each step was, as the sound was different with closeness, with strength, with time, the pace in which each soul walked. I’d count the steps from the top of the hallway staircase, to the doorstep of my bedroom, the bathroom, my brother’s room, and the chamber of fear where my parents slept. 8 to my room, 8 to the bathroom, one in to close the door, 4 to my brothers room. If they stopped mid-walk, there was a problem.

My father had a heavy walk, a quick one with feet weighed like anchors off a boat. His paces, rushed trees towards the sunlight, thirsty to become alive. My mother always wore slippers in the house. She’d take a step and the back of them would slap and sland along the floor. She had several pairs spread throughout the rooms. My favorite was the grey purple soft tops, the ones with the tiny lip on the back, and the dark brown soul. Those usually stayed on the dividing landing in the staircase; the one with the front door between upstairs and downstairs. If we heard her walk, slower, hunched back, tired and worn down, coming towards our door at night, we knew to hide. In the day she was light, cautious almost, and calm. That wasn’t her.

In fights during the evening, she’d made large clashes against the carpet of her bedroom, stomping to force anger out, rather than bashing a wall or something. I heard them through the thin wood board walls separating our two rooms.

My brothers footsteps were a combination of the two. He was light, but swift, almost like he was dancing on his toes. I imagine him sometimes with his shorts pulled up way too high, the kind of thing he did to jokingly annoy my mother. I know he’d always walked like this; scared of declaring his presence, but careful enough to guard his feelings when my parents had cracked their door open with screams.

My sisters walk was the only one I could never get down. I knew when she’d walk into the room, her usual habits being around 10 pm, with a phone cord dragging on the hardwood. Sometimes I’d mistake hers for my fathers, for they had similar foot weights and pressures.

Tonight, I’d heard the heaviness of footsteps, and the rushing clatter of shoes, stop right outside my door. The light under the door between the wood and the floor was stagnated, and the outline of a shadow foot was seen. The whispers they’d carried over their split second journey had become louder.

The date was August 24th, 2016. It was 9:41 P.M. on this aching Wednesday night. I’d just released my secret, my guilty, lose-too-much-damn-sleep-over-this, secret. My head was between my sheeted mattress, and the thin pillow I’d refused to trade in for a fluffy one. Both were a light, damp green.