My Cardboard Balcony

These Stairs by Belinda Roddie These stairs don't lead to anywhere. The ceiling hits your head on cue. The pills you pop to alleviate the ache are temporary escapes from reality. Because when you were young, you were told that you could build an escalator to heaven if you figured out the mechanics. And now, in an abandoned house of nervous breakdowns, you feel the steps pushing you against a limit. A barrier. Another wall to send you stumbling backward into another hellhole of a hall.

He told me he was doing it because he wanted to instill courage in me. That he wanted me to become a survivor should total chaos break out in society. And he believed that would happen soon - far sooner than anyone else thought. However, I didn't understand how hitting me would make me tougher, or pressing hot metal against my bare arms and legs. He said I had to get used to the pain, and one day, I responded by breaking his arm with just one hand. He wasn't willing to let his own mantra apply to his own agony.