Heading down the stairs br I feel the temperature drop br as a thick, musty smell br hits me in the face. br br I stop at the bottom of the stairs br as the scar on my right foot br aches... a reminder of the br broken beer bottles that were br normally left after the fights. br br The ping-pong table is in the corner br and I can hear the echoing of the ball br being hit back and forth in the championship matches. br The bar seems eerily empty. br Nobody at the barstools. br The lights unlit seem very odd. br There was rarely a day or night br that this basement bar wasn't br full of people br ranging from teenagers to retirees. br br I see the glasses still sitting atop the bar. br (the ones that show the many sexual positions) br My cheeks flush as I still feel the shame br of studying that glass as a young girl. br br The smell of whiskey fills the air br and I almost wonder br if my head is spinning from the air br or from the memory. br Either way, I know it's time to leave. br br As I head back to the stairs br I see into the laundry room. br The mass piles of laundry br that sit at least 4 ft high stare at me br as a grim reminder of the time br mom thought that would be a great hiding place br and burrowed like an animal br under one of the moldy piles br to escape the wrath of dad br (leaving us to take the brunt of his anger) . br br The stairs seem almost welcoming now. br I feel as if they are helping me climb them. br The need to get out of this house is overwhelming. br I don't even remember walking out br or through the garage again. br I just remember filling my lungs br with the sweetest air I've ever breathed br once I was on the road br and heading towards my home.