Last night venturing down to the basement to throw in one last load of laundry before going to bed, I took a tumble down the stairs. Now, I’m a natural klutz and have tripped on the stairs plenty of times; but this is the first time I’ve ever ended up at the bottom in a heap, my head pointing downward.
I have no idea what happened.
The worst part wasn’t all the bruises. The worst was that my landlord, Liam, was down there putting a fresh coat of paint on the windows and came hurrying over when I yelled. Oh, the embarrassment!
The best part was that Dom was running for the door before even I yelled because he’d heard the initial thump.
He picked me up and made sure I was ok and then he put the laundry in the dryer for me and helped me up the stairs. And then he even picked up the bath toys in the tub so I could take a hot shower. (It hurt to bend down.)
So now I’ve got a collection of bruises to rival Bella’s. There’s a sore spot on the back of my head, a big bruise on my arm, and I think a monster bruise is going to come up on my bum. It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurts to roll over in bed.
I’m ok. Really I am. What really scares me is the image that keeps popping into my head: What if I’d been carrying Bella? Picturing her small body at the foot of those stairs gives me the willies. But I keep coming back to it.
Now that I’m feeling better I’ve become the butt of Dom’s jokes. (Pun intended with malice.) I guess I’m very glad to be well enough to be mocked.
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