She blinked. The porch steps were moving in front of her. Swaying in the rain. She blinked again. She couldn’t see far beyond the steps. The rain and darkness obscured her view. Even so, she didn’t think she’d be able to see well otherwise.
Her hand gripped the door until her knuckles turned white. She didn’t want to go back inside.
She blinked again, the steps still moving back and forth. She tried to focus on something, anything. She heard the pitter patter of the rain far away but it didn’t register. Her hand slowly slid down the door. She couldn’t hold her grip any longer.
She blinked, slower than before. The steps shifted more and more out of focus. There were two sets of porch steps. Then three. They seemed to multiply in rapid succession.
Somewhere beyond her consciousness she heard the intake of breaths and a light chuckle.
Then she was falling.
© 2020 Friday Fictioneers, 14 February 2020
Photo from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields