1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. He had counted them a million times, but it gave him comfort to count every morning nonetheless. Every time he got to 16 he would let out a deep breath of air almost as if he was glad nothing ever changed. Change was something he was scared of. If his world changed would it be for better or for worse? Six months, a year, two years, he didn't know how long he had been there but he was sure it was more than a few months. Just sitting around, up and down, down and up. Time was irrelevant, the sun he used to see every morning was now gone, he would sleep when he was tired and get up when he wasn't. He had a vague guess of when "night" and "day" were supposed to take place even though the entire world was all the same boring light grey. It's funny how people take the simplest things for granted, the sun, the taste of food, the voice of another human, even color itself. He was neither hungry nor full, yet he would probably eat just about anything because it would remind him a little of the life he once knew A voice, that's what he wanted, just one word. He would give anything to her his mum call his name. Even though he couldn't remember what she sounded like he knew she had a beautiful voice. A single world from another human would make this grey world light up into a billion different colors. He never talked. He used to, but not anymore.

When he first got there he would cry for hours and talk out loud just to drown out the endless void of silence. Now he just sits there on number 12, it was his favorite. It's not too high and not too low, he isn't risking falling off the edges, and he has the positional advantage of the high ground. He doesn't know why it matters but it makes him feel safer. Bored, so bored, absolutely nothing to do. He had already counted to 10,000, twice, and already twiddled his thumbs for an accumulated time of around 2 days, though he couldn't know for sure. He had already learned to cross his eyes and he had said the word "dog" so many times he didn't know what it meant anymore. Anything you can think of he had done it a month ago. He had found himself sleeping more and more just because of the lack of other things to do, but if he wanted to sleep he had to work for it. He would run up and down, never going all the way to 1 or 15 thought. He would do this to exhaust himself so he would sleep more. Sleep was his only escape.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. Without fail he had counted every morning, the steps of the grey stairs never changed. They just hung there in space. Nothing held the staircase up, it just floated in the void. Every day went like this. He would wake up, count the steps, talk to himself a little in his head, and then sit around for the rest of the day doing nothing or something close to nothing. Today was special though today he was going on the other side of the railings. He had prepared for this for a long time and it was finally time. He did as he had always planned. He took his belt, one of his prized possessions as it served as the source of most of his fun, and his shirt. He tied them together and then to him and the rale he took a second to steel his nerves and then stepped over.

He felt better than he had felt in a long time. Looking at the dull grey staircases from a different point of view was amazing! At first he grabbed onto the railing as if his life depended on it, but after a few minutes he let go and leaned back hoping his makeshift rope wouldn't break. He stayed like this for as long as he dared before he climbed back in to secure and retighten the belt and shirt. As soon as he was done he was back out on the other side feeling like a mountain climber repelling off a cliff. That's when his eye caught it. Yellow. He had seen yellow! It was when he was swinging back that forth and he saw it. Something was under the stairs and it wasn't grey! He didn't care what it was he had to have it! At that moment he knew it was now or never. He untied the belt from around his waist and held onto it with his hand. He leaned down as far as he could but the yellow thing was still out of reach. Right under 11, that's where it was. It was defying gravity by being there but he didn't care. Leaning, that's all he focused on, getting his body out as far as possible. So close, a few more inches, closer closer. That's when it happened, right when he was wrapping his hands around the new joy of his life the shirt started to come loose. He pulled the object into himself before scrambling back up. He practically flew over the railings and sat down grounding himself to step 9. Slowly he scooted up to 12 and sat down. He loosened his iron grip on the yellow rectangle and inspected it. It was around 4 inches on top, and 6 inches down the side and he knew what it was.

A book, that's what it was. He didn't care what book it was as long as he had it. He opened it up and six skinny sticks toppled out. He grabbed at them, not daring to give them a second to topple off. He knew what these were too. Pencils; six bright different colors. He held them in his shaking hand and wept. This was the best thing that had ever happened to him: a book and six pencils. He leaned his head away from the book not wanting to get it wet with his tears of joy. Once he had dried his face he leaned over the book and opened it to see blank white pages. He could draw, he could take his wild imagination and put it on paper, and in color! Overwhelmed with emotion he started to cry again. This lasted until he fell asleep, drifting into deep dreams where he saw himself drawing in his new book. He awoke and immediately looked for his prizes, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, these were the colors of the pencils, these colors would become his new world. He drew, he didn't know what to at first because he knew that every page counted but he eventually picked up the green and drew some grass. By the time he was done he had drawn a house in a yard, with people and animals all singing and dancing together.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. The steps never failed him, always the same, the bane of his existence, but yet at the same time the only thing keeping him afloat. A few days went by and the book and its pencils never once left his grasp. His favorite color was yellow. He had decided this after closely inspecting each color one by one. The book was yellow and that might have also helped him decide a little more easily. He drew whatever crossed his mind. He had 152 pages left, the book originally had 199 pages, he had counted. He used the pages in the back of the book to a journal. He used orange for this because it was the color he used the least. Every day before going to bed he would write something down, it didn't really matter what it was as long as it meant something to him.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. He had almost stepped right off the end of the staircase before he realized that one of the steps was missing. He counted again, and sure enough he was right the first time, a step was missing. Technically step number 1 was missing and the railings were gone with it. He wrote this down in his book and drew a picture of where he thought the step must have gone. The next day he was scared to count, he hoped the entire thing was just a dream but was knew it wasn't. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14. Step 2 was missing. He was too scared to draw but he wrote it down in the book. He sat there, staring at where his two steps had used to be. Fear trickled in as he realized that he would have nowhere to go if this were to continue. Not knowing what else to do, he slept. When he woke, step 3 was missing and he was on the verge of tears. The hopelessness that he felt was worse than any boredom. He knew he only had 13 days left before the last step would disappear and he was going to make the best use of every last day. He drew so much his hands blistered, but that didn't stop him. He had 5 steps left when he ran out of paper, but he had created masterpieces; drawings that were so marvelous he could hardly believe he drew them. Favorites were very important to him: 12 was his favorite step, yellow was his favorite color, cattywampus was his favorite word, and his favorite drawing was called staircases. It was of him, sitting on 12, drawing in his book. He liked the picture because it was simple and meaningful. It didn't compare to any of his other drawings, but none of them were as personal as this one. He kept his favorites on him, his yellow pencil, and the drawing, but the book and the other pencils were safely put on top of step 14. As he guessed, step 12 was gone in the morning. He knew it would happen but it was still sad. He had spent so many days sitting there, and now it was gone. A tear tricked its way down his cheek but he quickly swiped it away and grabbed for his book. But it wasn't there.

The book wasn't there, he looked everywhere that was left but it was nowhere to be seen. It must have fallen. He didn't know how that would have happened but it must have. Now all he had left was 4 steps and his favorites, except 12. He cried. Nothing would soothe his pain, nothing at all. 3 steps left; 2 steps left; last step. The days went by as he sat there on 16. Before he knew it he had nowhere to go so he let his legs dangle off the edge as he admired his last drawing. He began to feel tired and he knew it was around when he would go to sleep. He knew that as he slept the step would disappear. But he didn't care anymore, staying awake would merely delay the inevitable. He clung onto his drawing and his yellow pencil and fell asleep for the last time, and as he did he found comfort in the fact that he had a purpose, to draw, and a purpose was something he never thought he would have on the staircase.