The floor always creaks when I step in that one spot, so I've learned to just avoid it.

I hate the sound. It's like nails on a chalkboard, except I think I'd prefer that. Nails on a chalkboard aren't dangerous. The worst that could happen is the chalkboard gets a little scratched.

The creaking floorboard was always the sound of danger approaching.

I tip toe across the floor sometimes, and other times I run real fast. It doesn't creak if I step on it light enough, and I don't hear it over the stomp, stomp, stomp.

It's always there, though.

I've thought about finding someone to fix it. My friend does floors. She offered. I didn't want to waste her time though.

I stare at it.

Today I am tired. I don't feel like coming up with more ways to avoid it. I walk towards the floorboard.

It creaks.

That sound is awful. Brings back memories of fear, of hiding in the closet hoping, praying that maybe you'd just go into another room, wishing that I'd turn invisible.

But I am still here. And the house is empty. I am alive, and I am safe.

I step hard on the floorboard. It creaks again.

It is my foot that makes the floorboard creak.