Oh no. You don't have to go.

[waitingforabus]

What I didn't know is that stairs would remain a life-long fear. I had a thing for basements even before. He lived down there. My friends didn't say much about it, but I could tell that they were at least a little curious. I would walk down there at night when he came home and sit on the steps. When I was little I would wear my teeny ballet slippers because my feet would get cold. Sometimes I would bring my stupid baby blanket because I got cold, but I liked seeing my Dad when I was small. He would sit in his chair and we'd watch COPS on his teeny black and white television. Mom would come to the top of the stairs and sometimes complain that the show was inappropriate for me, but we ignored her. That's what I liked about Dad...together we had the power to ignore the gripes of my mother.
It's funny how my mind works now. Even then I barely remembered. I remember walking down the stairs and being from behind. I didn't even see it coming. He was behind the stairs. I knew someone was down there. I knew it.