She wakes up on the ground again, feet being cradled by the last step on the stairs. Her head is pounding, a familiar feeling she gets often. Her house is silent except for her pained groans; the air around her is making the feeling of vacancy evident.

“D**mit, I need to fix those stairs.” She groans and stands; her body is aching. She only remembers the beginning, the gentle sounds of her toes skipping up the steps, no middle but simply a burning end. She walks in front of the mirror in her bathroom to see a soft bruise forming on her forehead, it pulses and aches, though she pays no attention. This happens often. She grabs the plastic bag of ice that she has used often and placed it against her forehead, shivering at the cold touch. It’s much worse this time.

“My angel, can you come upstairs?” She flicks her head towards the loving male voice that calls her up those steps, the ones she hasn’t fixed. Though she never had the motivation or confidence to anyway. She sets the bag of partially melted ice on the tabletop and makes her way up the steep, wooden steps. She is met eye to eye with her husband, the lovingness of his voice not matching the frustration in his eyes. “You fell again, what a surprise.” He sighs, massaging his temples in attempt to ease his annoyance.

“I haven’t had time to fix the stairs,” she says wearily, her bruise lightly knocking at her skull.

His eyes flicker with confusion, although the frustration only grows. “Fixed the stairs?” He lets out a maniac-sounding snicker and steps closer to her. “The only thing that needs to be fixed, is you.” He growls and before she has time to comprehend what happened, his palm slams into her sternum and the sounds of wood clash with her sharp intakes of air. Then there is silence. “You always were clumsy. Too bad.” A prideful sigh slides through his lips and he goes back to bed.

The stairs are yet to be fixed.