Between the Steps
1026 Words
Her pen died halfway through the test.
The ink faded not all at once, but slowly — black turning pale, then scratchy, then nothing at all. She shook it. Scribbled circles in the margin. Pressed harder. Only a faint, dry line remained, like a whisper of writing instead of real words.
She didn’t raise her hand.
Instead, she opened her sling bag carefully, trying not to make noise. The zipper had a way of catching if pulled too fast. Inside were loose papers, a folded snack wrapper, and her small pen case with the broken clasp.
She took out her pencil.
It was short — barely longer than her palm — but it fit her fingers perfectly. The wood was uneven where her father had sharpened it with a knife weeks ago. Her sharpener had stopped working; the blade inside had grown dull and useless. The pencil tip wasn’t needle-sharp, but it was sturdy. It wouldn’t snap easily.
She checked the eraser.
There wasn’t one.
Not really.
Instead, she pulled out a tiny gray square cut from an old rubber slipper. Her father had sliced it neatly, saying, “Still good. Don’t waste.” But it didn’t erase. It smeared. It pushed the graphite into a darker stain, like bruising the paper.
After using the slipper-eraser, she hid it quickly in her skirt pocket. She glanced around, hoping no one had seen her use it, ashamed that she couldn’t buy a real eraser yet.
So she wrote slowly. Carefully. No mistakes.
The classroom buzzed with low noise. The teacher had been called to a meeting and left them copying notes from the old manila paper posted at the front. Chalk dust floated in the sunlight near the windows. Someone at the back was whispering. A chair scraped. Pages flipped.
The slide caught her eye again as she watched her teacher stroll outside. The slight c***k along the upper half caught the sunlight at an angle, making it look like a fault line in a larger, hidden structure. This time it looked wider, rougher. Children slid, oblivious, laughing with careless joy.
Her eyes darted back to her notebook and the board. She continued writing.
She crossed her legs.
She needed to pee.
She tried to ignore it at first. She pressed her thighs together, eyes on the paper, writing small and neat. But the pressure built, dull and insistent. Finally, she stood.
The common CR was at the corner of the classroom, separated by a short wall. Two wooden steps led up to it, old and slightly bowed in the middle. The gaps between the planks were dark with years of dirt.
She pushed the slipper-eraser deeper into her pocket and walked over.
The wood creaked under her weight.
Inside, the CR smelled faintly of damp cement and soap that had long since dissolved. She finished quickly, flushed, and stepped back toward the door.
As she adjusted her skirt, she felt it.
Her pocket felt lighter.
She froze.
Her hand slipped inside.
There was a hole at the bottom — threads loose, fabric thinning from too many washes.
Her eraser.
She looked down at the steps.
At first she didn’t see it. Just worn wood, dark lines where dirt had settled. She crouched and checked the floor beside the steps. Nothing.
Then she leaned closer.
Between two planks, something pale caught her eye.
Her first thought was chalk.
A chip, maybe.
She bent lower, squinting into the gap. The classroom noise hummed behind her — laughter, someone tapping a desk, the scrape of a chair leg.
Her eyes adjusted.
The pale shape was round.
Reflective.
Alive.
She stopped breathing.
It wasn’t chalk.
It was an eye.
Open. Still. Looking up at her from the darkness between the steps.
For a second, her mind refused it. She blinked hard, as if that would rearrange what she saw. The eye didn’t blink back. It didn’t move. It simply watched.
She stood up too fast, her knee hitting the step with a dull thud. Pain shot upward, but she didn’t make a sound.
No one in the classroom noticed.
The noise continued — pens scratching, whispers, a brief burst of laughter. The world went on, untouched.
She didn’t look down again.
She walked back to her desk, each step measured, steady, as if balance depended on it. She sat. Picked up her pencil. Her hand trembled once, then stilled.
She wrote.
Her letters were darker now, pressed deeper into the paper. The pencil made a rough, dragging sound with each stroke.
She didn’t ask to leave early. She didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t look toward the CR again.
When the bell rang, she packed her bag carefully, making sure the hole in her pocket faced inward.
At home, the floor shone.
The bare concrete was polished with floor wax until it reflected light in soft, cloudy patches. Her father liked it clean. He said dust made a house look tired.
He was at the sink when she entered.
Washing his hands.
Water ran longer than needed, splashing against the metal basin. He scrubbed between his fingers, under his nails, around his knuckles. The bar of soap turned slowly in his grip.
“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.
She looked at his feet.
New slippers. Cheap plastic. Stiff straps. The old ones were gone.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“There’s a clock,” she said quietly.
“Just asking.”
He rinsed again. And again. Only then did he turn off the tap.
She set her bag down. Her eyes drifted to his hands. They were clean. Too clean. The skin around his nails looked pale from soaking.
At dinner, he ate normally. Asked about school. Nodded at her answers. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.
But she watched.
When he stood to wash his plate, she watched.
When he walked across the waxed floor, the soft slap of the new slippers followed him. She watched.
That night, in bed, she stared at the ceiling.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the gap between the wooden steps.
And the eye.
Still open.
Still waiting.
- Writer
