The Steps Where I Sinned

Sample

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This is where I am now, neither dead nor alive, but existing, and aching for a salvation which I know might never come.  I am just a man, I tell myself.

A special man.

I stroll down these steps, one at a time, running my hand along the sleek, black banister and occasionally running ragged fingernails along the cold, granite walls of the buildings on either side.  They lead down from the cobbled, ancient streets of a city long destroyed by glass and steel, to the monstrosity of a dual carriageway at the bottom.  Two hundred and forty three steps in all.

I counted once.

I’m sure I’ll count them many times.

I had too much time on my hands one night, and so I began; one, two, three… and I never stopped from then on.  It was my favourite place; deep in the shadows of the bricked-up alcoves that were positioned at every landing; the old lamps casting not a shred of light on my sanctuary.  Deep in the night whilst patrons patronized their favourite haunts and the theatre nearby buzzed with an excited queue.  Drunken laughter would fill the air, and bombard my mind with snippets of jealousy and bitterness. 

I would stand there, watching the traffic rush by at the bottom of the stairwell.  I often wondered where these steps had led to, before the new roads had been built and congested the city even more with noxious fumes and blaring horns.

I was standing at the bottom on the pavement one night, after having counted the steps once more, just to be sure that the count was right.  I was illuminated by the lights from the passing cars; I had grown weary of hiding in the shadows and needed the excitement of street lights and moonlight and fast-flowing vehicles.  I heard her skipping down the stairs before I saw her, and knew it was a drunken girl by the beat of her steps: when you live in shadow and darkness you learn to appreciate the simpler sounds the night makes. 

I turned and watched her; aware that she hadn’t noticed me and was oblivious to the beauty of the staircase she now descended.  She was no more than twenty years old but the worries of the world had rested themselves on her small, dainty shoulders.

How divine she looked.  How utterly innocent and transparent were her thoughts that I wanted to call out to her, to beg her to share those thoughts with me.  I was finished with memories of darkness and shadow.