‘The Least of Myself’ by Sylvia Leong

The cracks between the cobblestones chewed the heels of my gold-coloured stilettos. I lifted to the balls of my feet, wincing at the stabbing pain, and walked through the ornate gates into a dim courtyard strung with fairy lights. A crimson bulb illuminated the stone staircase up to the restaurant. The same restaurant we’d dined in earlier.

A black hump lay at the foot of the stairs. One step forward. A pile of something? One more step. No, a human. Another step. A woman. 

A normal person would run to her. A good person would check her pulse. I stood still as a gravestone.

Just fifteen minutes ago, I’d navigated my way down that staircase in my six-inch heels, marvelling at the steepness, thighs straining like a tightrope walker, and gripping the wrought-iron railing as though my life depended on it. Signs posted at the top and the bottom read Caution, Watch Your Step, At Own Risk.
 
There was no blood, at least none that I could see. The woman lay belly down, neck turned, head resting like she’d collapsed. One of her legs was straight and the other was bent, as though she were asleep on crisp sheets in a warm bed.

Maybe she was asleep. Just so, so tired.

That’s ridiculous, said the little voice in the back of my head, the little voice that was the least of myself.