Her birthday was on the thirteenth of February and when she read that the ruins had 213 steps, she excitedly planned the visit with her friends.
211, 212, they chanted in unison.
“Come on Deborah! You be the first to reach your ‘birthday step!'”
And as she took that last stride, triumphantly declaring the number 213, her foot slipped and she felt herself falling. Her horrified friends grasped desperately, as she almost knocked them over on her excruciating plunge downwards.
She had injured her spine in two places and the doctor said she’d probably never walk again.
213… February 13th, a number and date she so desperately wanted to forget.
She refused to celebrate her birthday the following year and angrily shoved the cake aside.
“Deborah…,” began her mother.
“No! I hate this date! I hate it!”
“Deborah! Your foot…it…it moved!”
She’d been trembling with rage and hadn’t noticed her right foot shift from the wheelchair footrest.
The worst date of her life had once again been the start of a new one.
Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers