The sentence is "The floor beneath him was still."

He waited, silently hoping that she wasn't down there, lying on the couch, dying some more. She was repulsive, and he didn't want to have to sit there with her, looking at her piggish face, bloated skin, crooked teeth. He felt ashamed that he felt this way about his mother, but he couldn't help the extreme disliking he felt for her. This woman was supposed to be his role model, his rock, the one person he could count on. And yet she couldn't even stop getting high all the time to remember to feed him food other than nacho chips.

He took a step. There was no sound. He quietly padded down the stairs. The last one made a creak. "Richieeee! Oh em gee I haven't seen you in days, come here!" He peeked into the living room. The room was clouded with smoke and reeked of that foul illegal substance he hated. He wished it had never been found, never been smoked, at least in this house. His mother's black hair ran down her back as she raised her head and puffed out a laugh that seemed to rip away more of the old fashioned wallpaper. It peeled and yellowed from all the smoke and stale air that seemed to be more of a resident in the house than he was.

"It's only been 20 minutes. I think I'll go back upstairs..." But he didn't go back upstairs. He got down on the floor and crawled into the kitchen, hoping for dear life he'd be able to make it this time. Just get to the back door and you're good, he thought to himself.

"Richie, you spend all your time upstairs. That's all you do is sit in your room. Why not come relax your mind and body.."
"I'll pick up yoga.." He muttered. Almost there. Just got to reach the door knob...

"Why are you on the floor, Richie? Where are you going?" His mother was in the kitchen doorway, eyes red and glossy as always. Who cares if she knows you're leaving? Just leave. Tell her you're done, he thought to himself. But he couldn't. He didn't feel right just storming out on her like that. He didn't want to see her face when he left because then it would be all that he thought about. But he refused to keep living like this. He couldn't.

"I'm going to go get some more chips, Mom. Would you like some?" He turned and opened the door, anticipating her eagerness for some chips.

"Actually...no. I just want..I want to walk with you. Do you mind? I'll just go shower really quick." He turned back to her, to see if she would bust out laughing. But remorse had remodeled her shriveled face; this was sincere. His heart felt relieved but heavy for some reason. He couldn't quite figure out what was going on as he took his mom upstairs to shower.