Step by step. Inch by inch. I just had to flip my legs over the side of the bed and tell myself that the next inch is just as long as the next inch, so that if I can get through one, I can get through a thousand. Blinking, struggling, wheezing. I push myself off the bed, wobbling. Fall back onto the bed, covered in sweat so deep that it coated me like a fur coat. A quick wipe of the brow. Hands on the bed, pushing me up and away. Except the away part never happened. I fell backwards, and it felt like the last time. My hands reached for the headboard, but were too sweaty to hold on to. I wiped them on he bed sheet, once again reaching for the headboard.

I hear a low rumbling as my children bound up the stairs. I squeeze the headboard tighter, using every bit of strength I can to muster so my kids don't have to see me struggling so hard to get out of bed. They don't know yet, and they don't need to know. I pull myself off the bed as my youngest girl busts through the door. She runs up to me, dressed in a yellow summer dress. She is headed to school. Her first day of middle school. My other children come in just as she gets to me, yelling and screaming. All five of them hug me, squeezing me as tight as I had squeezed the headboard only moments before. They let go, my oldest son gathering them together. They say goodbye, and he leads them down the stairs, closing my door. Takes them to his car, drives away. All the time I am standing there, unable to move from that one spot.

I force myself towards the closet, never losing the headboard. It stays in my grasp like an old blanket, comforting and yet holding me into a different mindset. I let go of the headboard reluctantly, stumbling as quick as I can towards the closet door. I almost make it before I hit the ground, my head slamming against the side of the wall. I feel my own blood seeping from the side of my skull, pooling around my ear. The world dims and comes back, as if the after life was signaling me with Morse code. I try to move my arms, but I can't. I try to roll over, but I can't. My legs don't work, my arms don't work. I don't work. I blink, trying to clear whatever it was that was blurring my vision. Tears, I realize. I am crying.

I give it all I have, forcing myself up onto my knees. I see the phone next to my alarm clock, the red numbers looking as if the are melting wax at a candlelight vigil. I crawl towards the phone, feeling my own hot blood dripping down the side of my face. I reach my phone, pulling it off the nightstand. I collapse, crumpling to the floor like wadded tissue. I wipe my eyes, turning the phone's numbers towards my face. My vision dims, I can't see the numbers. I shake my head, and it clears my head for a few seconds. I look at the numbers, and I realize I can't remember how to operate a phone. I drop the phone, lay on my back. I stare at the ceiling, already missing my children. I close my eyes, but my vision is already black. My tears continue to flow, but not for me. For my children. And as my mind fades, I just miss them.
Quote by skaterskagg1
Gotta have more shaft!

Don't sig that!

Just because you said not too!
I genuinely enjoyed this. Thank you.

If I could suggest one thing, it would be to make the third paragraph, where the narrator falls, somewhat more dramatic.