January 1st,

I stand at the top of a spiral staircase. The black marble reflects an unknown light source and a faint noise rises from the stairway. Behind me is a white granite staircase. It is crafted with the same precision, spiraling upwards in a sea of purity. I can walk around on this floor of black and white checkers, and I attempt to go back up the granite staircase. An invisible wall blocks my way.

My eyes shoot open and the dreamscape fades into a memory. My pencil releases from the paper, and with a heavy sigh I hang up the new addition to my wall of drawings. Rows of papers with endless stairs covered the wall opposite my bed. This was the first of its kind, with both dark and light staircases. The dark hadn’t yet made its solo appearance.

    I don’t know how to describe it in any way but a vision of sorts, It could be considered a recurring dream, but it changes every time. One year ago today, I was 29 steps down the granite staircase. The top of the stairs was where I had sat as a child. The floor there was solid white. I have had this vision for seven years.

Every time I got a bad grade on a test, every time my drunk of a father threw a punch, every time Mom cried, I had the vision. And every time I had the vision, I stood one step lower. 246 steps in the past year. She started boxing to mask the truth behind the bruises, but she never fought back against him. She bruises so easily, she is so fragile. I don’t know how to save her.

New year new me. The thing all idiots with a holiday blog and a hipster Tumblr account say the second that the calendar turns over to December first. Try this new juice cleanse! You’ve never felt so healthy!..... My new workout routine, I lost 20 pounds in a month!..... Blah blah blah blah. I guess it’s true enough, though. It’s definitely a new year, it’s the new me part that I doubt. People say that they’ll be better, that they won’t eat as much sugar, but no one truly changes with the calendar.

January 2nd,

    It’s a Sunday. He won’t hurt her today, he won’t get the chance. She spends all day at the church. I, however, would not be surprised if he threw me into a wall for being a “lazy sack of nothing” or a “failing student with no potential” These were common insults, resulting in only a half a step of difference.

    I made dinner tonight, Mom usually stays out to around 10:00. He eats at 8:30. I will eat at 9:00, whatever he leaves untouched and the yogurt Mom sneaks me on Sundays.  The rice was undercooked and the chicken was burnt. Five lashes from his belt. I put the beer out too early and it got warm. An insult shouted in my face. I’m failing every class except art. Another lash.

    She will pray tonight. Not in their bedroom, he doesn’t like that. She comes to my room to kiss my forehead, say a short-lived prayer, and flip off the light switch. Mom’s belief in God is strong, she says every day how grateful she is to be alive, hoping that God will give her mercy for staying strong through pain and suffering.

    I will not pray tonight. I will go to my room while she’s getting dressed in her nightgown. I will lay in bed silently, ignoring the stack of homework on my desk. I will listen to Mom’s whispers and the constant tick-tock of the clock on my bedside table. My belief in God was lost long ago. I believed that if he was out there, he would have allowed us an escape. I will not pray. I will listen to Mom’s heart beat quickly in her chest when she hugs me, I will listen to her nervous breath before returning to bed, but I will not listen to her apologies as he yells at her for taking so long.

She will pray for the both of us.

January 3rd,

    I have descended three steps down the marble staircase. The noise rings a bit louder, caressing my ears with a melody to drown out the strain of life. I still can’t see the bottom.

January 4th,

    School is getting worse. I neglect to turn in assignments, and my grades would be dropping, but they can’t get any lower. I sit for ten minutes in the art room after school every day. I can see the worry in my teacher’s eyes as I draw the same things. Tears, sadness, monsters, staircases. He is too scared to speak up. Too scared that he’ll break me if he makes a sound. My pencil scratches away all the white from the page, and all the light from the art.

I drew another staircase. It would be tacked up with the rest of them, but the wall is empty. I was in my room when he came home from work. I was supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen, but I didn’t check the clock. He’s never come in my room before, he usually resorts to yelling. Today he stormed in to scream at me. His voice was cut short when he saw the drawings.

    He tore down every last one of them. Ripped them in half and screamed at me for stabbing holes in my wall, then for spending too much time on my art and not enough on school, and then for not cleaning the kitchen. As he was walking out he saw the drawing of Mom that I had done. It was before he started drinking, back when she was happy.

It now lays in pieces on my floor.

January 5th,

    I am five steps down the staircase. I try to move down the steps, closer to the song. I strain my ears to hear it, it’s so faint. My feet won’t budge, and I’m forced to stay where I am.

    Today, he apologized. He didn’t drink at all last night and spent all day with a splitting headache. Mom forgave him without batting an eye. I asked her about it that night, and she told me that she still loved him, and he cared enough about her to apologize. This was after her prayer and before he started drinking again after dinner.

    All of the drawings are in my folder, still torn in half. I didn’t have the energy to try and tape them back together, and I filled all of the holes in my wall. The staircases will no longer be visible to anyone but myself.

January 6th,

    He’s been getting more and more agitated. Mom has a new black eye and a bright red handprint on her arm. He says it’s work, Mom says it’s stress, I say it’s alcohol. His football team lost and he threw his beer can at the screen. Our TV is now shattered and covered in beer. He then ranted about how if I had a job we’d be able to afford a new one. This is a lie. His job provides enough.

January 7th,

    I am now ten steps down the black staircase. The song doesn’t seem to be getting any louder and I am desperate for the relief of the music to wash over me. I want the sea of sound to cover me like a blanket. I want it to sing me into a sleep with no staircases, no fear, no sadness. I don’t feel like it ever will. 
    Today he threw my backpack into a wall. After his one night of sobriety he is more drunk than I have ever seen him. He screams at us for his faults, criticises every move we make, hurts me, hurts Mom. I don’t feel the pain anymore.

January 8th,

    Today he got fired for sneaking booze into the office and yelling at his boss. When he came home, it was nothing but screaming and punches and grabbing and anger. Mom started crying. She was too distracted to notice that dinner was burnt. He stood up, beer can in hand, and shoved her into the same wall where my backpack had created a hole. He screamed at her and began to hit her. Over and over and over again. I called 911 but they were too late.

Mom is dead.

January 9th,

I stand 45 steps into the black staircase. The music is louder. This is the first time that I can see the staircase even when I have my eyes open. I walk slowly to the bathroom. As I walk, I descend the stairs. 64… 65… The music grows louder. In the mirror I see a tear-streaked face with pale skin and bright red eyes.

My father was arrested yesterday. When the police came they wanted to ask me some questions.

    I grab a bottle of antidepressants that Mom took as prescribed by her doctor. I walk back the way I came, going down the stairs the whole way. 101… 102… Mom’s favorite place was the park during the winter. It was sprinkled with snow. It was beautiful.

    I said that I couldn’t but they urged me. I only answered two before they brought out the closed body bag. I fainted.

    The car door slams behind me and I drive to the park. Carefully, just like she did. The snow soaks my leggings as I kneel down in front of our bench. Our initials were carved into the wooden slab. 306… 307…

    The policeman caught me before I hit the ground. When I woke up I was laid carefully back in my bed. Mom’s slippers were on the floor of my bedroom.

    The entire bottle is emptied into my hand, and I take one last look at the beautiful world that she couldn’t enjoy in her last few moments. The music is surrounding me, draping over me, calming me.

    I dragged myself from my room to hers, and I hugged her nightgown close to my chest, Bible at my side.

    I say a prayer, and I swallow the pills.

    My eyes open, and confusion clouds my thoughts. Am I not dead? I look down to see the last step of the black marble staircase. A glance above me reveals the entirety of the path I’ve walked. I try to move backwards, and I manage a step behind me. The music fades to almost nothing. Panic fills me to the brim. I want the music back, so I place my foot back on the bottom step.

    I take a deep breath, and step down onto the floor past the stairs. A single light pierces the darkness, and Mom steps into view. All the bruises are gone, her skin is unridged by scars, there is not a drop of blood in sight. Her smile is full again, her laugh more joyful than I ever remembered.

I run to her, and I am home.