A Slow Descent by Alada Porter (electronic reader TXT) 📕

Susan slowly pulls the mop out of its bucket; she rings it out carefully, only to be assaulted with the sound of dirty water drip drip dripping onto the white linoleum floor. She bites her lip and rubs her thumb against the ribbed surface of the mop handle over and over and over until the skin is worn down to the lowest, reddest layer.

She takes a deep breath. The daily routine will continue, and she will come out alive.

She walks backwards as she mops, the wet spots closing in on her and rapidly leaving her with no space to move. She tries to take one more step back but is greeted with a dull thud as her foot taps a little too forcefully into the wall.

Trapped. She is trapped. And just like that, the frustration pops.

“Goddamn it!” she says out loud, sinking to the floor and pressing her knees up to her chest, her small feet just barely touching the edge of her little island.

She suddenly feels like crying, but she doesn’t know why.

“Oh, ******** me.” She buries her face in her hands, wondering if she has made a mistake, if her life has only been made of mistakes.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She looks up to see the owner of the house’s son, a boy of barely sixteen, standing on the line of carpet where the living room turns into the kitchen. He smiles at her softly; his teeth are slightly crooked, but it’s a nice smile, nonetheless.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” She stands up quickly, feeling the heat rush into her face. She wishes she still wore her hair down, like she had in high school, but it’s tied too tightly against her scalp; she has nothing to hide behind anymore.

“… Is the floor wet?” he says finally.

“Yes?” It comes out like a question, and she looks down, embarrassed by her timidity.

“Wait a minute.” He walks away and comes back with an armful of towels. Slowly, carefully, he lays them down in a line coming straight at her, the last one just reaching her toes.

“I’ve laid out the red carpet for you my lady,” he smiles, holding out his hand to her. She doesn’t mean to, but she grabs it, driven by an outside force. An outside force that likes the attention.


“Thanks,” a voice smoother than her own replies, her lips spreading into a smile against her will. His eyes scan her, all the way up and down, like he has never really seen her before.


“Hey, no problem. How can I walk away from a woman in trouble?” He laughs, winking at her.

“A woman in trouble...” she replies softly, letting go of his hand and taking a step backward.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, looking confused, “You always look so... sad, whenever I see you. I just thought that maybe I could, um, help you out… for once. ”


She walks out of there as fast as she possibly can while maintaining some semblance of composure, but the hand carrying her bucket of supplies shakes and her chest constricts, and it takes every last bit of will power to climb into her car and drive home.

She finally stumbles through the door, feeling defeated. She has never been good with talking to people, she’s never been good at doing anything really, and it’s always been hard for her to keep away the panic that always seemed to be building in her lungs.

Irrational fear. Isn’t that what her old psychiatrist used to tell her? She suddenly wishes that she could talk to him again.

She tries to conjure up his face, but it’s blurry. She hasn’t been to a psychiatrist since she was fourteen. The face she ends up with is Sigmund Freud. She supposes it’s better than nothing.

“Why do you feel this way, Susan?” Freud asks, taking a long drag from his pipe.

“I don’t know.”

“Really? You honestly don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Fine.” He rubs his imaginary fingers against his imaginary temples, “Then tell me, what exactly are you feeling? You can tell me that can’t you?”

She pauses, trying to comprehend her twisted up emotions, but the words leave her mouth before the thought was even finished, “Regret, shame, and fear. There’s always fear.”

“And why is that?”

She can’t take it anymore; she turns away and runs to the bathroom, wrenching open the medicine cabinet to find those pills she bought.

She swallows two without water, feeling the hard corners rub dryly against her throat all the way down. She puts the bottle away and then rethinks it, pulling it back out and taking two more.

“Pathetic.” Freud says from behind her. She closes her eyes.

She had been given the chance to get married once, but her nerves hadn’t let her. She had been too afraid of the strain of married life, the strain of children, the strain of a real job and a real life.

“How does it feel Suzy? Your strain-less life?” Freud asks, his voice a whisper against her ear.

“Pathetic.”


She wakes up not knowing what time it is. Her cheek is pressed up against the cold tile floor, her hair is plastered with vomit, and her stomach feels like it has been corroded away. She sits up slowly, her bones creaking; she grabs the edge of the sink, attempting to pull herself up, but fails. Eventually she gives up and just sits, one hand on the sink, the other hanging limply at her side.

She cries then, and she doesn’t stop until she hears the alarm in her room that says that it’s time for her to go to work. When she does hear it, she forces herself up, washes her hair in the sink, and stumbles her way into the bedroom to change into her uniform for the day.

After work is over Susan stops by the liquor store to pick up a couple of groceries. She used to go to the grocery store, but it had been too taxing on her nerves, to big, too many people. The liquor store was safer.

But her neurosis's are worse lately.

Even the liquor store, which she must visit at least 15 times a month, is giving her hives. The fluorescent lights beat against her brow and she can feel cold sweat running down the back of her neck. Every shelf is a maze, every person is one person too many and she feels cramped, trapped. She closes her eyes to keep the panic from reaching her throat. Maybe it's best if she just leaves; she can deal with this later, after a pill or two.

But every time she tries to take a step towards the door she can feel Freud's hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from it. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. She's not allowed to leave until he says so.

The panic grows big and fat in her throat like a tumor.

“Susan?”

The panic shrinks slightly at the sound of the familiar voice and she turns around. It’s the boy’s mother, Marjorie J.

“Ah, hello Mrs. J.” she replies weakly, the hand holding the basket shaking.

“I’m glad I ran into you. I was wondering if you would mind coming over today at about eleven O’clock or so? We’re throwing a party and it’s going to be a huge mess, so I’d really appreciate it. I’ll pay you double.”

“I don’t-”

“Do it Susan,” Freud interrupts, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shivers at his touch and finds herself nodding, moving her mouth to say words in the affirmative.

Mrs. J. doesn’t seem to see the turmoil.

“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.” She walks off, the click click click of her heels hammering into her skull like the nails on a coffin.

“Why do I have to go? Can’t I just-“

“No. You can never ‘just’ do anything. If you don’t keep moving, you’ll die. Besides, the party will probably be over by then anyway, you can handle cleaning can’t you?” His voice is firm, and she does not argue.


When she arrives at eleven o’clock the party is clearly not over.

She can hear the laughter and the music from the other side of the door, and as she takes the first step up to the porch, her entire body is covered with goose bumps.

“What are you so afraid of?” Freud asks, his eyes admonishing her for her unwanted and melodramatic fears. She looks down at her black suede shoes; she has chosen them on purpose, so that if she ever gets the desire to look at them she won't have to stare at her own reflection. She silently applauds her foresight, the last thing she needs right now is to stare herself in the face.

“I don’t know, please, just let me go home.” She can feel his stare boring into her back and her eyes begin to blur with tears. What does he want? She doesn't understand why she feels the way that she does, so how could she possibly tell him? All she knows is that she wants to run away.

“Oh please, it’s just a party. Don’t you like parties?” It’s a different voice this time, a woman’s voice. Susan turns to the left and sees a tall, beautiful woman, dressed in a black cocktail dress. The woman looks like a more glamorous version of herself.

“Please, let me leave,” she begs, turning back and forth between them, hoping one will give her sympathy. Freud and the woman laugh.

“It’s a lovely party, why don’t you live a little? You don’t have to clean until it’s over, so why don’t you…” Susan feels a push on