Very Short Story 3

Her first time in that specific stairwell was accidental. She had been searching for the Oddities Health Clinic which happened to be located in the exact spot two streets over. She frequently mistook 8s for 3s and this was a prime example of such a time. She had also been distracted by her habit of looking up as she walked, which she knew to be a bad habit and was currently working on attempting to fix. To her amazement she had spotted leaves, which seemed to be creeping down the silvery windowed wall from the rooftop of the building. They were connected to each other and appeared to be green; almost as if they were alive. It was not usual for the city to permit rooftop gardens and the mystical aura reminded her of stories her babysitter would tell her as a child of Forests – lands of wild and unstructured plant growth. She had breathed deeper in through her nose probing for purer, newborn air. Probing for proof.

Her nose, of course, had led her up, where she soon found herself on a landing not at all similar to the one on which the Clinic was situated. She had been there once before and she certainly was not there at that moment. This fourth floor landing was not the location of any type of suite and actually appeared to be less of a landing and more of a do-not-land-here-please-continue-on-your-way, partially swollen step. She had stopped, and, realizing she must have been in the wrong building, she began to turn around and retrace her path down and out. She was most definitely late for her appointment and was worried. Appendage-removal was a fairly intense surgical process and would have to be rescheduled if she were more than 15 minutes late. The uniform chrome and gray of the stairwell had smothered her thoughts of the potential garden above and the air had a distinct metallic taste which she was not at all enjoying. As she spun, her eyes picked up the hue of a slightly darker gray blur.

Positioned against the back of a stair some seven steps above her, like a mouse-sized door, was an electrical outlet, labeled across the top with a date: 9-15-37 The date was written in thick, black, block numbering; with dashes.

She stared hard. She had never seen an outlet before. The square contained three distinct openings and if she didn’t know any better, they seemed, at least from the distance, to parallel the prongs on the end of her appendage. Most persons with her type of problem had had it ‘dealt with’ upon birth. Her mother however, had been a whole-istic being and believed that any severance of parts from her tiny baby would, in the long run, be emotionally more scaring than living with it. Thus, she had spent her life with a limp, gray, bloodless limb coiled up and taped to her hipbone. Thankfully, it coiled up tightly enough that it was indiscernible beneath clothing.

She stared harder. Soon she was climbing up again. Once she reached it she bent down and ran her finger along the openings. It matched perfectly there was no doubt in her mind, but she was early. It was 2030. She was curious and longed to insert, but hesitated.

The stairwell became her Mecca. Every September she would return and contemplate the unknown mystic of this little metal box. By 2035 she knew she was dying. She had disregarded the advice of the clinic and had never gotten the surgery. Now the cord-like limb was sucking her life, even she knew it. It was December. She was weak and thin and cold. It took an hour for her to lug herself up the first two floors. By the third, she knew her only hope for life was the outlet. She had unwound her coil and held the end in her small pink hand. Exerting every remaining ounce of life inside of her she reached it up to the opening.

When the janitor found her she had been dead for four hours. Her tiny frame was stiff and gray. He cradled her up in his arms and as he carried her down to the street, her cord swung violently, hitting the wall each step of the way.