Rain slicked the metal stairs in a thin, cold sheen, the kind that turned every step into a physics problem. They stretched up three stories like a relic from an abandoned Soviet power plant — harsh angles, corrugated steel, railings that felt optional. Whoever designed them didn’t believe in safety. Or mercy.
It was almost 1 a.m. The air was chilly, and my arms were bare. I had two tres leches cakes and a container of horchata — warm, sweet, fragrant, sloshing gently with every step. Non-slip shoes, check. Confidence, check. Adrenaline… maybe not enough.
I reached the top, realized the map had lied to me, and turned around. Mistake number one.
Foot slipped. A tiny betrayal. And then: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK — my internal monologue screamed. Years of karate and wrestling training kicked in without thinking. My body snapped into instinctive breakfall mode: chin tucked, arms angled, joints ready. Head untouched.
One flight down. Lower back first. Thigh second. Right forearm slammed into metal. Pain exploded. Wind knocked out. Horchata detonated mid-fall, spraying hair, glasses, clothes, skin. Cinnamon milk baptism. The cakes had their own trajectory. Three flights down. Concrete. Gone. Abstract art of dairy.
I stopped on the 2.5-floor landing, inches from the railing. One misstep and it would’ve been over. Luck, reflex, stubbornness — call it what you want. I was upright. Breathing, sticky, bruised, still alive.
There was still another delivery. Ground floor. Twenty dollars. I finished it. Driving home, adrenaline fading. Soreness setting in like rent. Showered. Horchata melted from hair. Bruises forming across lower back, thigh, forearm. I lived. Could’ve been fatal. But wasn’t. The stairs wait. I won’t go back.
EXT. BRUTALIST METAL STAIRS – NIGHT Rain slicks the corrugated steel. EZRA, early 20s, carries two tres leches cakes and a container of horchata. EZRA (voiceover) OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK— His foot slips. He tumbles. Years of karate and wrestling training kick in instinctively. Body locks into perfect breakfall: chin tucked, joints ready, head intact. LOWER BACK – BAM! THIGH – CRUNCH! FOREARM – SLAM! Horchata sprays everywhere, cinnamon cloud. Cakes fly off his hands, plummeting three stories to concrete. EZRA lands on the 2.5-floor landing, gasping, drenched. Inches from railing. He steadies himself. EZRA (voiceover, breathless) Could’ve been over in a second. Lucky martial arts reflexes, I guess. He limps down remaining stairs. Ground-floor delivery. Completed. CUT TO: INT. BATHROOM – NIGHT EZRA showers. Horchata melts out of his hair. He examines bruises forming across his back, thigh, forearm. Breathes. Alive. Sticky. Humiliated. Lucky. FADE OUT.
[Stage lit dimly. Ezra speaks to the audience, trembling from adrenaline and dark humor.]
The stairs hated me. Metal, corrugated, three stories up. I had two tres leches cakes and horchata in my hands. Foot slipped. Lower back first. Thigh second. Forearm third. Pain shot up like lightning. Wind knocked out of me. Horchata exploded everywhere. Cinnamon milk baptism. I smelled like a dessert that had committed a crime.
My years of karate and wrestling kicked in instinctively. My body executed a perfect breakfall. Head untouched. Chin tucked. Arms ready. Joints flexed. Survival mode on autopilot.
The cakes went airborne. Three floors. Concrete. Gone. Instant tragedy and art installation in one. I stopped inches from the railing that might have ended me. Could’ve been fatal. Instead, I got up. Finished the delivery. Twenty dollars. Another delivery. Ground floor. Completed. Drove home, showered, sticky hair, bruises forming. Alive. The stairs are still there. Waiting. Cold. Metal. Silent. I won’t go back.
[Imagine Ezra narrating into a mic, deadpan, with comedic timing.]
Picture this: it’s 1 a.m., raining lightly, and I’m carrying two tres leches cakes and a jug of horchata. The stairs? Oh, the stairs. Corrugated metal death traps, brutalist nightmare from some dystopian Soviet-North Korean crossover. I slip. I fall one flight. Lower back? Bam. Thigh? Bam. Forearm? Bam. Horchata? Everywhere. Cinnamon milk baptism, people. Don’t ask.
But here’s the kicker — my years of karate and wrestling kicked in midair. My brain screamed OH FUCK, my body said “nah.” Breakfall protocol engaged. Head untouched, joints flexed, chin tucked. Survival with style.
The cakes? They went on a three-floor voyage straight to concrete. Splat. Delicious tragedy. I stopped just before the railing that might have ended my life. Lucky me. I got up anyway. Finished the delivery. Twenty dollars. Another delivery, ground floor. Easy. Completed. Drove home. Showered. Smell like a churro. Bruises forming. Alive. Hilarious. Never again.
[The full cinematic tale celebrating head intact + martial arts reflexes]
Rain slicked the metal stairs in a thin, cold sheen, the kind that turned every step into a physics problem. They stretched up three stories like a relic from an abandoned Soviet power plant — harsh angles, corrugated steel, railings that felt optional. Whoever designed them didn’t believe in safety. Or mercy.
It was almost 1 a.m. The air was chilly, and my arms were bare. I could feel the cold as I carried two tres leches cakes and a full container of horchata — warm, sweet, fragrant, sloshing gently with every step. You’d think non‑slip shoes would help. You’d think the universe might give me one free pass that night.
You’d think wrong.
I reached the top. Realized I was at the wrong building. Classic.
I turned around.
My foot hit the edge of the first step. A tiny slide. A whisper of movement.
Then betrayal.
Internal Monologue:
OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK—
And gravity ripped me downward.
The world blurred. Metal slammed into my lower back. A flash of white fire shot up my spine. My thigh bounced hard off the next step, turning into an improvised shock absorber. My right forearm smacked the edge so loudly it echoed.
The horchata?
The horchata went supernova.
A milky, cinnamon-scented explosion detonated around me as I tumbled. It sprayed across the stairwell in a mist of chaos, splashing into my hair, my face, my glasses, my shirt, my pants. I smelled like a dessert that had committed a crime.
It felt and looked and smelled exactly like the disaster it sounds like.
And the cakes —
my god, the cakes.
In slow motion, they slipped from my hands. Two perfect squares of creamy tres leches lifted into the air like tragic dairy angels. They drifted away from me on their own doomed trajectory.
Meanwhile, I continued my own violence-filled descent.
OH FUCK—OH SHIT—WHY—HUHHHH—IS THIS—FUCK—
I hit the 2.5‑floor landing with a thud that rattled my bones. Air left my lungs so fast it felt like someone had punched the soul out of me.
For one terrifying moment, I genuinely could not breathe.
My vision fuzzed. My ears rang. My brain went blank except for the faint echo of:
OH FUCK.
The cakes, however, had zero hesitation.
They flew beyond the landing, gliding down three whole floors like dairy-filled comets.
And then:
SPLAT.
On the concrete.
Three stories below.
Gone. Instant dessert massacre.
I lay there on the metal landing, dripping horchata, smelling like a cinnamon forest that had died in shame. My hair stiffened as the milk dried. The cold air hit my soaked clothes. My glasses were somehow both fogged and sticky.
The railing on the landing sat inches away. One more stair. One more bounce. One more unlucky angle.
If I hadn’t stopped where I did…
I wouldn’t be bruised.
I’d be a chalk outline.
But I got up. Slowly. Carefully. Wheezing like an old man crawling out of retirement.
Pain radiated from my lower back. My thigh pulsed. My forearm throbbed. Everything hurt except the things that should’ve been broken, which miraculously weren’t.
And yet, because I am me —
because this is my life —
I still had another delivery to complete.
It paid twenty bucks.
I looked down the remaining stairs, dripping, bruised, defeated.
“Fuck it,” I wheezed.
And I went.
The second delivery was on the ground floor.
The universe gave me that one mercy.
When I finally got home, the adrenaline evaporated like steam off asphalt.
The pain settled in.
The bruises blossomed.
My hair hardened into cinnamon-flavored plaster.
I showered. Hot water turned the dried horchata back into liquid and washed the humiliation down the drain. My clothes smelled like churros. My skin smelled like sugar and regret.
I examined the forming bruises: lower back turning into a purple nebula, thigh darkening, forearm blotched like a watercolor accident.
I lived.
I shouldn’t have, maybe.
But I did.
It could’ve ended with a three‑story fall to concrete.
Instead, it ended with bruises, destroyed cakes, sticky hair, and a story so absurd it demanded to be written down.
The stairs are still there.
Waiting.
Cold.
Metal.
Silent.
But I won’t go back.