There was nothing more I could do so I decided to interview the creaky floorboard in my father’s house. The one just outside the bathroom door, that announced his every trip to the loo, and his increasingly aided footsteps.
I sat at the top of the stairs, close to where my head had once stuck fast in the spindles. Behind me, the bedroom door was newly closed, the horrors behind it muffled.
I took a deep breath and tried to form my first question. The floorboard eyed me, warily. It said it didn’t know, it wasn’t a doctor, after all. To my next question, it snorted,
‘No, but you could remind him to dry his hands on a towel, and not just shake them as he leaves.’
‘Okey-doke,’ I said, and the floorboard looked pleased with our progress. I scribbled down its responses and wiggled aside for the paramedic to shoulder past.
Later, when it was time to sell Dad’s house and split the proceeds with my sister, I paused to say goodbye, and the floorboard groaned.
‘No one who likes carpets.’ I promised, ‘No matter what Dawn says.’ The floorboard agreed.
I looked back for the last time, glad we’d had that little chat.
This story was long-listed in the Spring 2019 Reflex flash fiction competition.