As if to make a point...
The spaces between steps narrowed until I could no longer stand. Crawling, I squeezed into the remaining space, listening to the muffled conversations upstairs.
The stairs have already squeezed me to a point. I wondered where the candlelight was coming from.
The last owner of the house had to go far away, she said, so she gave it to me. “Edit my house,” she wrote me in a letter, and sent me the address.
But the guys from the football team wanted some space, and offered to remodel it. So off we went on this pointless journey.
Crossing the street toward the entrance to the courtyard, I saw a shadow of the broken boy. He turned his back, but his fingers shook and pointed in my direction, as if accusing my innocence.
The hallway had no photos. The football guys were still crossing the street, perhaps getting hit by cars, I don’t know.
I was alone with the words on the top of the ceiling, printed in 12-point Times New Roman. “Editing starts here.