Between shifting zones of time, Iris lay tense on her bed—a large, unmade double bed—her hands trembling as she stuffed money, creams, and personal items into her purse. Every item she stuffed into her bag seemed to weigh more than the last. Not because of its mass, but because of what it represented: a life that was no longer hers. Every second counted. A deafening slam echoed from the other room.
"Where are you, bitch?!" a furious voice shouted.
Iris's nerves frayed. She touched the diamond engagement ring on her finger, scratching at her skin as the door burst open.
He staggered in, disheveled, the smell of cheap wine preceded him. His steps were erratic, as if the floor were shifting beneath him, a bottle clutched in one hand.
"It was a misunderstanding... what part don't you..." he began.
"Shut up, slut! You cheated on me!"
"I didn't—"
"Yes... yes, you did!"
"Enough, Robertson!" Iris snapped, slamming her purse shut. But he grabbed it with brute force, hurling it down the hallway.
"What are you doing?! You drunken bastard!"
"What did you just call me?" he barked, shoving her violently. "You've ruined my life! I won't stay with someone who's been screwing her secretary for hours without telling me a damn thing!"
"I didn't do anything with him! It was a misunderstanding... check the cameras if you want!"
"I don't give a—"
"You don't care because you don't want to look bad!"
"I don't care about that! Come here..." Robertson seized her arm.
"Let go of me!" she screamed.
"Not in your dreams... I need to vent."
Iris swung at him, her heel catching him square in the jaw, then lunged for her purse. "You want to fight a woman in heels now?!"
"I wish you had died in that..." he sneered.
Desperate, Iris sprinted toward her daughter, four-year-old Sarah, trembling and hiding nearby. Robertson lunged, grabbing her hair, but she yanked free.
"You're right next to our daughter!" she shouted.
"So what?"
"So what?! You drunken fool, you can't even take care of her, and you blame—"
"Shut up! Our daughter is a bastard!!"
"She is not! Stop talking like-!" Iris yelled, pushing with all her strength. Robertson barely budged, one arm flailing, the other still clutching the wine bottle.
Iris made a break for the stairs.
"I'll never take care of her!" he roared, hurling the bottle at her ankle.
Iris's heel caught the edge of the stair, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch. She saw the steps below rushing toward her, each one sharp and unforgiving, each one a promise of pain. The clatter of the wine bottle echoed behind her, a chaotic percussion mingling with Sarah's terrified scream.
Her body twisted midair, almost in disbelief at the velocity with which gravity claimed her. The world tilted and spun; walls bent, railings stretched, and light fractured into shards. She could see the blur of the hallway, the glint of the diamond on her finger, and Sarah's wide, frozen eyes.
A sickening series of impacts followed—the heel slamming against the wood, her head scraping the railing, her shoulder colliding with each step as if the stairs themselves were intent on breaking her. Every sound amplified: a crack, a thud, a groan of splintering wood.
Her breath caught in her throat, a strangled gasp that echoed the panic in her mind. The staircase became a slow, terrible descent, each second dragging, each movement carved into her consciousness.
Finally, the last step gave way beneath her, and she hit the floor below with a hollow, jarring thud. Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
Sarah's tiny voice trembled through the quiet: "Mom?"
Robertson staggered forward, vertigo-stricken, to see her lifeless form at the bottom of the stairs. The world blurred.
Then... nothing.