From TC 9:3 – “Life’s Routines” by Cheryl Lynn

When my father fell down the stairs, I decided not to help him. I was sitting in a recliner watching Jeopardy when he landed just a few feet away in a crumpled mass of arms and legs, skin and bones. He mouthed something, his eyes bulging with terror and I casually wondered, my pulse never breaking eighty, if he had broken his neck.
After taking in the sight before me and committing it to memory, I turned back to Jeopardy and tried to ignore the strange gurgling noises that came from his mouth. I realize that may seem a bit cold, but you have to understand the situation before you pass judgment on me.
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