DOWN

The escalator hums like it knows my name.

Its thin electric purr vibrates through the metal ribs and into the soles of my shoes. The mall smells like warm pretzels, burnt sugar, and sharp lemon cleaner. Somewhere, a pop song echoes off glass. The lights glare off polished tile, everything too bright to hide in.

My mom is already one step ahead, shopping bags rustling like paper wings. My sister leans on the rail, her sleeve brushing the cool steel.

“Come on,” my mom says. “It’s just an escalator.”

Just.

I stand at the edge. Gray steps rise and vanish like obedient teeth. Yellow lines blink, daring me to miss them. The air near the machine is warmer, thick with the heat of bodies and motion.

Behind me, a shoe scuffs the tile.
Then another.
Someone exhales loudly.

I don’t turn around, but I feel their weight press into my back — a line forming, a quiet demand to be faster, to be normal.

“Go,” a man mutters.

My stomach tightens. My palms sweat.

Four years old again. Going up. My sneaker catches. The world tips. The sound comes before the pain — soft and wet, like fruit splitting. My lip fills with salt. My sister screaming. My mom lifting me. Blood on my shirt. Purple gloves. Stitches like tiny black ants holding my face together.

“I fell up,” I used to say.
People laughed.
I didn’t.

“Are you getting on or what?” someone behind me snaps.

My sister turns. “She’s trying.”

“Well, try faster.”

Heat crawls up my neck. My ears ring; my throat tightens.

I step.

My foot lands crooked. The step moves anyway. The rubber rail sticks faintly to my palm. The machine tugs me forward, pretending to help.

The escalator carries me down.

Someone bumps my backpack.

“Jesus.”

“Some people shouldn’t use these.”

Shame burns hotter than fear. My face feels heavy, swollen — like it did when I was four.

Halfway down, a kid behind me bounces. The steps shiver beneath my shoes. My balance wobbles.

My foot slips.

Just a breath of movement — but my body doesn’t know that. My chest slams shut. My vision narrows. The mall blurs into color and noise. I taste blood that isn’t there.

I freeze.

“Move,” someone says.

“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice swallowed by the hum.

My sister’s fingers brush my arm. Warm. Real.

“You’re here,” she says softly. “You’re not four.”

My lungs drag in air that smells like coffee and plastic and strangers. My knees shake like loose hinges.

The bottom approaches.
The teeth end.
Now the ground wants me to trust it.

Someone bumps me again.

“GO.”

My heart crashes.

I lift my foot. It lands on solid tile. Cold. Steady.

Then the other.

I stumble forward, catching myself on my sister’s sleeve.

I don’t fall. I’m off.

The escalator keeps chewing steps behind me, like I never mattered to it at all.

My hands are wet. My legs buzz. My mouth tastes like panic.

My mom touches my shoulder. Her hand is warm through my jacket. “You okay?”

I nod.

My sister smiles like she saw the whole battle.

We walk away. The crowd immediately replaces me, flowing down in shoes and coats and impatience.

I touch my lip. The scar is gone, but the memory hums beneath it.

I didn’t fall today. I didn’t bleed. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t let them rush me into being small again.

Behind me, the escalator hums. For the first time, it sounds quiet.

And I keep walking.

Keran Holland is a student at Full Sail University. When they’re not writing, they enjoy painting and reading.