She looked up the stairs from below. The light receding into gloom. It was always another world, upstairs, at night. She dreaded it like any child dreads something: Not from the moment her eyes opened or throughout her day looking at colours that surrounded her, smelling crayons, chewing the wood on her pencil and tasting its bitterness and sweetness, not at home with the excitement of a story on the screen, not at dinner with the noise and doughy smells and laughter but when the windows showed a somber look and the bath water was being run and the nightclothes laid out on the bed.
The flannelette made her pause and then she remembered her fear. Placing moist feet into slippers she let her damp hair fall against her neck, trying to be small and inconspicuous, maybe they wouldn't notice her and she wouldn't have to ascend then, maybe later when a larger hand would take hers and she would not be alone when she went into that all-enveloping gloom.
Time's up.
Finding inspiration is hard and I want to try different was to inspire myself but finding a title was making me prevaricate tonight so I just looked at the dark lamp and switched it on and then I had my title.
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I would really welcome constructive comments or perhaps even some inspiration. To be honest , I would settle for some encouragement.