Every night. Every night I would descend the stairs, water glass in hand. I knew the water glass. Its shape, its weight, heavy enough to slip out of my hand as easily as air. Every night I would blindly fill it up with water, but I knew how long it took. I didn't need vision to know when it was filled. Just as quietly I would climb the stairs, one by one, grasping the railing. Sometimes I was climbing a mountain. Sometimes I was trudging up a hill through a storm. Sometimes a hand helped me up, sometimes I had to pull myself up. I would go slowly; I hated feeling the cold, slimy drips on my feet if the water spilled. And I would shut my door and click off the lamp and place the glass on the coaster. It was the same every night.
Every night except the last. My bare feet felt the familiar wood stairs. My whole body knew to lower a foot, one at a time, onto the next stair. One stair, two, three, but no more. My body knew to move but it didn't. My foot was still. It was the foot of a Greek statue, where just about it the goddess' robes would flow behind her. The foot stayed like a lump of lead. I was unbalanced, leaning forward, and my body left the ground. Glorious moments passed by where I was flying; floating on a cloud of the air I knew so dearly. The air turned to wind and it passed through me, taking the glass from my hand. Water stagnant from yesterday's twilight sparkled as it glided noiselessly.
I hit the stairs with a thud and slid down a few more. The tinkling of glass as it hit my temple was sweet music; sounds I cherished. The shards danced in the wind like I had and dusted itself across me. The water followed. But my clothes and skin were one, the broken pieces cut through fabric everywhere, the fabric covering my chest, my legs, my face. A new liquid was trickling all around; I wish it had been water. It filled my eyes and dripped on my ears, down my arms and legs and neck, and slid into my mouth. It tasted like metal. My body felt different, it didn't know what to do. It wasn't filling up a water glass anymore. It couldn't.

There was a scream; I wish it wasn't mine. And footsteps raining hard on the ground. They reverberated through to me on the stairs. I quaked with the stairs, but when they stopped shaking I didn't. I ignored it, and shut my eyes. It was a time for night to do its job, I didn't want people. There was noise, noises night didn't recognize. And I was lifted, but I didn't fly. I didn't climb a mountain, or walk up a hill through a storm. That wasn't every night, but it was last night.