The View From Down Here

Jon Saviours is this month’s winner of $565.00 for a story on finding the right words.

Bio: Jon Saviours is a 24-year-old writer from Delta State, Nigeria. His work has appeared in Ironclad Creative, and he earned fourth place in the 2024 Foley Poetry Contest.

You can find his previously published short stories on Kindle here: https://amzn.eu/d/e8051s5

Without further ado, “The View From Down Here” by Jon Saviours.

There's a specific feeling that comes with lying on the floor. It's different from a bed, which still expects something from you – sleep, sex, recovery. A floor makes no such demands. It simply exists beneath you, holding you up because that's what floors do. They don't ask if you deserve to be held.

I've been counting the ceiling tiles in my dorm room for forty-three minutes. There are sixty-four complete squares and twelve partial ones where they meet the walls. The water stain in the corner looks like Australia if you squint, or maybe a melted face. My phone vibrates against the thin carpet for the fifth time, skittering slightly before I trap it under my palm.

Eliza again. I should answer. I won't.

Instead, I press the side button and listen to her voice fill the empty space above me.

"Jamie, it's me. It's the anniversary. I know you remember. Call me back, okay? I don't care what time."

My sister's voice has this quality – like she's always just finished running up a flight of stairs. Slightly breathless, but determined to speak anyway. She's been talking like that since we were kids, since before. The day she found me, her voice didn't sound like that. It was flat, mechanical. Sometimes I think I preferred it.

I close my eyes and the ceiling disappears, replaced by the familiar darkness that's been my most constant companion since eighth grade. Seven years ago today. 2,555 days of being the kid who almost succeeded at the one thing most people are terrified to attempt.

Once more, my phone vibrates; however, rather than a message from Eliza, it turns out to be my father reaching out.

Can you stop by my office today? I have something for you.

No mention of the date. No acknowledgment of its significance. Classic Thomas Lawson approach – sidle up to the emotional devastation obliquely, like it's a wild animal that might spook if you look directly at it.

I type back: Sure. After my 2pm?

His response is immediate: Perfect.

I roll onto my side, facing the wall where I've tacked up exactly three items: a postcard from Eliza's trip to Montreal last summer, a flyer for a poetry reading I never attended, and the syllabus for my father's course on existentialism that I'm not officially taking. The postcard shows the Notre-Dame Basilica illuminated at night, all blues and golds. On the back, Eliza wrote, "Found God in the architecture, not in the prayers. You'd love it here."

My sister, the accidental poet.

The campus is that particular kind of New England beautiful that feels deliberate, curated, like every golden leaf has been strategically placed for maximum emotional impact. I hate it and love it simultaneously, which is how I feel about most things. Students cluster in small groups, laughing with a volume that seems impossible to me. How do they make that sound? How do they find the energy to project themselves that way?

My father's office is in Harrington Hall, the oldest building on campus. The English Department occupies the third floor, a labyrinth of narrow hallways and offices carved from what was once a vast open space. His door is slightly ajar, classic passive-aggressive Thomas Lawson – technically an invitation, but one that requires you to make the final move.

I knock anyway.

“Come in, come in,” he said, in that absent-minded rhythm of a recitation.

I push the door open to find him hunched over his desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, surrounded by stacks of papers and open books. Dr. Thomas Lawson, tenured professor of history and philosophy, former poet, full-time father to two semi-functional adult children. His office smells like old books and the peppermint tea he drinks compulsively.

"Jamie," he says, looking up and smiling. The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, which means he remembers what today is. "Sit down, please."

I take the chair across from him, the one students use during office hours. I've sat in this chair hundreds of times, but never as his student. He made it clear when I enrolled that he wouldn't teach me formally – "too many complications," he said, meaning too many opportunities for him to see me fail.

"How are your classes?" he asks, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Fine."

"And your poetry?"

"I'm not really writing right now."

He nods like this makes perfect sense, though last month he gave a lecture to his freshman seminar about how "creation is the only rational response to existence." I attended secretly, sitting in the back row. He didn't notice me.

"I have something for you," he says, opening his desk drawer. He pulls out a slim volume with a faded blue cover. "Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. I thought you might find it interesting."

Of course. On the anniversary of my suicide attempt, my father gives me an essay about whether life is worth living. The perfect gift from a man who processes emotion exclusively through academic texts.

"Thanks," I say, taking it from him. Our fingers don't touch in the exchange.

"It's not what you might think," he says, watching me examine the book. "Most people misunderstand Camus. They think he's saying life is meaningless. But he's actually arguing the opposite."

"That pushing the rock up the hill only to watch it roll down again is somehow meaningful?"

A hint of something – pride? surprise? – crosses his face. "You've read it."

"I've heard of it. Everyone has."

He leans back in his chair. "The point isn't the futility. It's that Sisyphus can find purpose in the struggle itself. Camus concludes we must imagine Sisyphus happy."

"Seems like a stretch."

Now he smiles for real, the kind that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. "Yes, well, philosophy often is."

I want to ask him if he remembers what day it is. I want to ask if he ever thinks about finding me on the bathroom floor, my lips already turning blue. I want to ask if he wrote any poems about it, like he did when mom died. Instead, I say, "How's your book coming along?"

His smile fades slightly. "Slowly. Academic publishing is a special kind of torture."

"At least you're writing," I say, immediately regretting it. It sounds like an accusation.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can almost see the gears turning as he decides whether to engage with what I'm actually saying. In the end, he chooses not to – another classic Thomas Lawson move.

"I should let you go," he says finally. "I know you have studying to do."

As I stand to leave, he adds, "Your sister called me this morning."

I pause, hand on the doorknob. "Oh?"

"She's worried about you."

"Eliza's always worried about me. It's her default setting."

He sighs, and it sounds like wind rushing through empty branches. "She has her reasons."

I turn back to face him, suddenly angry. "Are we actually going to talk about it? About what today is?"

He blinks slowly, then reaches for his glasses. "Would that help?"

"I don't know. We've never tried it."

"Jamie—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Forget it. I'll read the Camus. Thanks for the book."

As I turn to leave again, I notice something on his bookshelf that wasn't there during my last visit – a thin volume with a handmade look, bound in dark green cloth. It's shelved upside down, revealing the title on the spine: "Light Through Paper Walls." My father's only published collection of poetry, from before I was born.

I've never seen a copy in his office before.

---

I don't go back to my dorm. Instead, I wander toward the small woodland area at the edge of campus. The trees are mostly bare now, their branches stark against the gray November sky. The path is covered with a carpet of leaves that crunch satisfyingly under my boots.

My phone rings again. Eliza.

This time I answer.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound normal, whatever that means.

"Finally," she exhales. "I was about to call campus security."

"That's dramatic even for you."

"It's not dramatic on this particular day, and you know it." She pauses, and I can hear the sounds of Boston in the background – car horns, voices, the perpetual construction. "Where are you right now? Physically."

"Walking in the woods by the science building."

"Good. That's good." Her relief is palpable. "Are you alone?"

"Yes, but not in a concerning way. Just taking a walk."

"Have you seen Dad yet?"

I kick at a pile of leaves. "Just left his office."

"And?"

"And he gave me Camus to read. The Myth of Sisyphus, specifically."

She lets out a bark of laughter that doesn't sound particularly amused. "Jesus Christ. That man."

"He's trying, in his way."

"His way is emotionally constipated."

"Says the woman who moved to Boston to get away from us."

It's a low blow, and I regret it immediately. A moment silence stretches between us.

"I'm sorry," I say finally. "That was unfair."

"It was accurate," she says, after a few seconds. "But not the whole truth."

I find a fallen log and sit down, watching my breath form clouds in the cold air. "I saw his poetry book in his office. The one he published before Mom died."

"Really?" This genuinely surprises her. "He must have dug it out of storage. I've never seen him with a copy."

"It was shelved upside down, like he wanted to hide it in plain sight."

"That tracks." She pauses again. "Jamie, how are you really? On a scale of one to eighth grade."

It's our private metric, developed in the years after. A way to talk about the untalkable.

"Four, maybe? I'm not great, but I'm not... there."

"Are you seeing your counselor?"

"Dr. Morgan? Yeah, weekly appointments. She's fine."

"Just fine?"

"She asks good questions. I give carefully constructed answers."

"Jamie."

"I know, I know. I'm trying."

The wind picks up, sending a shower of leaves down around me. One lands on my shoulder, and I brush it away.

"Remember what you promised," Eliza says quietly.

Seven years ago, in the hospital room with bright lights and beeping machines, I'd promised her I would always tell someone – her, a doctor, anyone – if I ever felt like I was approaching eighth grade levels again.

"I remember."

"I love you, you know. Even when you're being an asshole."

"I love you too. Even when you're being overprotective."

"It's not overprotective if the protection is warranted." She sighs. "I have to go to a meeting. Call me tonight, okay? No matter how late."

"I will."

After we hang up, I sit on the log until my fingers grow numb from the cold. Somewhere above me, a bird calls out, a lonely sound that echoes through the bare trees. I wonder what it would be like to be a creature whose distress signals are so clear, so impossible to misinterpret.

---

Back in my dorm, I try to read the Camus, but the words swim on the page. Instead, I find myself thinking about my father's poetry book. In all these years, I've never read his poems. He stopped writing after my mother died, when I was five and Eliza was eight. He packed away his notebooks, donated most of his poetry books, and redirected his intellectual energy into academic papers with titles like "The Phenomenology of Grief in Early Modern Literature."

I wonder what prompted him to bring out his own book today of all days.

My phone lights up with a text from Dr. Morgan, my counselor: Just checking in. We still on for tomorrow at 3?

I reply Yes, I'll be there.

It's nearly dinner time, but the thought of going to the dining hall with its noise and forced socialization makes my skin crawl. Instead, I pull out a granola bar from my desk drawer and chew it mechanically while staring at the Camus book.

Finally, I make a decision. I grab my jacket and head back out into the cold.

***

My father's office light is still on when I reach Harrington Hall. The building is quiet, most professors having gone home for the day. I climb the stairs slowly, rehearsing what I'll say. When I reach his door, I find it closed. I knock gently.

No answer.

I try the handle, and to my surprise, it turns easily. The office is empty, but his computer is still on, the screen showing a document in progress. He must have stepped out momentarily.

I shouldn't go in without him here, but I do anyway, drawn by the green book I noticed earlier. I cross to the bookshelf and carefully extract it. Up close, the cloth binding is worn at the corners, the gold lettering faded. I open it gently, as if it might disintegrate in my hands.

The dedication page reads: "For Katherine, who taught me to find light in dark places."

I turn the pages slowly, scanning the titles: "Morning Light on Water," "Katherine Reading," "First Snow After Loss," "Holding My Daughter's Hand." I stop at that one and read:

Her fingers curl around mine

like new leaves, tender and terrifying

in their trust. What have I done

to deserve this small hand in mine?

Nothing. And yet here it is,

the whole universe condensed

into five tiny fingers and a palm

still soft with newness.

She looks up at me, eyes wide with

a question I cannot answer:

Will you keep me safe?

And though I know the world

too well to promise this,

I nod and squeeze her hand,

as if my grip alone could shield her

from all that waits beyond this moment.

I realize with a start that the poem must be about Eliza, not me. She would have been three when this was published. I was barely conceived.

I flip toward the end of the book, where I find a sequence titled "Birth Poems." The last one really hit me in the gut:

The doctor places you on your mother's chest,

red and howling, furious at being expelled

from your first home. Already you fight

against transitions. Already you rage

against endings. I recognize myself in you,

my second daughter, my mirror.

Your sister touches your head gently,

a benediction from one who came before.

"Be careful," I tell her, but Katherine smiles.

"She knows," she says. "She'll watch over this one."

And I want to say: That's my job, not hers.

But looking at them—my three miracles—

I understand some things transcend

the boundaries I've constructed.

Later, holding you under hospital lights,

I whisper promises I may not keep.

But this one I mean: Whatever darkness comes,

I will stand between you and it.

Or failing that, I will stand beside you in it.

There is no light without shadow,

no joy without the knowledge of sorrow.

I name you Jamie, after my father,

who taught me this hardest lesson.

I hear footsteps in the hallway and quickly return the book to its place, upside down as I found it. When my father opens the door, I'm standing by his desk, pretending to examine the spines of his academic texts.

He stops short, surprised. "Jamie. Did we have another meeting?"

"No, I—" I struggle for an explanation that won't reveal what I've been doing. "I thought I left my notebook here earlier."

He glances around the office. "I haven't seen it."

"My mistake. I must have left it in the library."

He sets down the coffee mug he's carrying and studies me closely. "Are you all right? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Just tired." I move toward the door. "Sorry to bother you."

"It's never a bother," he says quietly. Then, more hesitantly: "I've been thinking about our conversation earlier. About today's significance."

I freeze, hand on the doorframe.

"Seven years," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It doesn't seem possible."

I turn back to face him, stunned by this acknowledgment. "You do remember."

"Jamie." He said, his face reflecting genuine pain. "How could I forget the worst day of my life?"

The words were too honest, too raw for the careful dance we normally perform around difficult topics.

"You never talk about it," I say finally.

"Neither do you."

"I didn't think you wanted me to."

He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. "I didn't know how to ask."

We stand in silence, separated by his desk, by seven years of careful avoidance, by all the words neither of us has been brave enough to say.

"I found you," he says eventually, his voice hoarse. "It wasn't Eliza. She called 911, but I found you first."

This is new information. All these years, I'd believed the story I was told in the hospital – that Eliza had checked on me when I didn't come down for dinner, that she'd discovered me unconscious and called for help.

"Why would you let me think it was her?"

He sinks into his chair, suddenly looking much older than his fifty-eight years. "She asked me to. She thought it would be easier for you to face her than me. She was right, wasn't she?"

I don't answer because we both know it's true. After the hospital, after the mandatory therapy sessions and medication adjustments, I could look Eliza in the eye. My father, though – for months, I could barely be in the same room with him.

"I saw your poetry book," I admit, nodding toward the shelf. "The green one."

He follows my gaze. "Ah."

"I read some of it. The birth poem, about me."

He's silent for so long I think he might not respond. Finally, he says, "I stopped writing poetry after your mother died. I couldn't find the language for that loss." He pauses. "But after you... after what happened seven years ago, I tried again. For myself."

"You wrote poems about it? About me?"

He nods slowly. "It was the only way I could process what had happened. What had almost happened."

"Can I read them?"

His hands tighten on the arms of his chair. "They're not... they're very raw, Jamie."

"So am I."

After a long moment, he reaches into his bottom desk drawer and removes a leather-bound notebook. He holds it for a beat, then extends it to me.

"Not here," he says. "Take it with you. Read it when you're ready."

I accept the notebook, feeling its weight. "Thank you."

"Jamie," he says as I turn to leave again. "Whatever you find in there... know that I tried. I'm still trying."

I nod, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat.

***

Back in my dorm room, I sit on the floor with my back against the bed and open my father's notebook. Inside, in his handwriting, are dozens of poems. I flip through them slowly, scanning through titles and fragments:

"The Day After Almost"

"Things I Should Have Said"

"Waiting Room Triptych"

"What the Doctors Wouldn't Tell Me"

I stop at one titled simply "Eighth Grade" and begin to read:

They say there are no atheists in foxholes

but there are plenty in hospital waiting rooms.

God abandoned this antiseptic corridor

long before we arrived, trailing our desperation

like wet footprints on polished floors.

Eliza sits beside me, her hand in mine,

the way it was when she was small and afraid.

Now she is fourteen and still afraid,

but no longer of monsters under beds

or shadows that move in darkened rooms.

Now she fears the monsters we carry inside us,

the ones that whisper to her sister at night:

You are nothing. You are no one. You should be nowhere.

When the doctor finally appears,

his face gives nothing away.

"She'll make it," he says, and Eliza collapses

against me, sobbing with relief.

I remain upright, spine rigid with terror,

because I know what he's not saying:

She'll make it this time.

Later, when they let us see her,

tubes snaking from her arms like strange appendages,

Eliza rushes to the bedside, all teenage awkwardness

transformed into grace by love.

I hang back, weighted by my failure,

by all the signs I missed or misinterpreted.

"Dad," Eliza whispers, "come here. She needs you."

And though I doubt this very much,

I step forward into the terrible new world

where my child has tried to leave us,

where all my learning means nothing,

where all that matters is finding

the right words to make her stay.

I close the notebook, gasping slightly as if I've been underwater. My phone vibrates with a text from Eliza: You OK?

I type back: Reading Dad's poems. Did you know he wrote about it?

Her response is immediate: Yes. He showed me a few years ago. Heavy stuff.

Why didn't you tell me?

It wasn't my place. He needed to be ready.

I set the phone down and lie back on the floor, feeling its solid support beneath me. The ceiling tiles look different somehow, the patterns they make more intentional. I pick up the phone again and text my father: Thank you for the poems. And for finding me.

His reply comes several minutes later: Always.

Just that. Always. As if it's the simplest promise in the world.

***

The next day, I walk across campus to my appointment with Dr. Morgan. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from somewhere distant. Students pass me, laughing and talking, full of animation. I notice them differently today, wondering what they carry inside, what private anniversaries they mark.

Dr. Morgan's office is in the Student Health Center, a modern building that stands opposed with the historic architecture around it. Her space is small but neatly arranged – two comfortable chairs, a small desk, plants on every surface, books lining the walls. She greets me with her usual calm smile.

"Jamie, come in."

I settle into what I've come to think of as my chair, noticing how the sun streaming through the window creates patterns on the carpet.

"How are you today?" she asks, which is how she always begins.

Usually, I say "Fine" or "Okay" or some other noncommittal response that doesn't invite deeper inquiry. Today, I say, "Yesterday was the anniversary. Seven years."

She nods, unsurprised. Of course she would know this – it's in my file, part of the history that brought me to her office in the first place. "And how was it for you?"

"Different than I expected. My father and I... we talked. Sort of."

"That sounds significant."

"He's been writing poems. About what happened. About me."

She tilts her head slightly. "And how do you feel about that?"

I consider the question, truly consider it rather than offering the reflexive deflection I typically would. "Seen, I guess. And terrified by that."

"Being seen can be frightening," she agrees. "Especially when we've worked so hard to hide."

"I've been thinking about Sisyphus," I say, the changing the subject, but not really a change at all.

"Yes, Camus. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart."

"You know it."

"Your father taught a seminar on existentialism last year. I sat in on a few sessions."

This surprises me. "You know my father?"

"We've crossed paths professionally. Small campus." She smiles slightly. "He's a brilliant lecturer."

"He gave me that essay to read yesterday. The Myth of Sisyphus."

"On the anniversary. Interesting choice."

"That's one word for it."

She leans forward slightly. "What did you take from it?"

I look out the window, where bare tree branches claw at the blue sky. "That maybe the point isn't whether you reach the top. Maybe the point is just to keep pushing."

"And what do you think?"

"I think..." I pause, searching for words. "I think my sister has been pushing my rock for seven years, and my father has been writing poems about watching us both struggle, and I've been lying on the floor counting ceiling tiles."

"That's quite an image."

"It's a family tradition, speaking in metaphors. Clearer than saying what we actually mean."

Dr. Morgan goes quiet for a moment, her eyes reflecting thoughtfully. Then she says, "What would it sound like, Jamie, if you said what you actually mean?"

I feel my heart rate increase, my palms grow damp.

"I'm scared," I say finally. "I'm scared that one day the floor won't be enough. That I'll remember how easy it seemed, seven years ago, to just... stop. And I'm scared that if that happens, I'll hurt them all over again."

"Them?"

"My father. Eliza."

"What about yourself?"

I shrug. "That seems like the least important part sometimes."

"I would disagree."

"I know."

She lets the silence linger, comfortable with it in a way my father never is, in a way I aspire to be.

"Jamie," she says eventually, "have you considered that continuing to push the rock – to use your metaphor – isn't just about preventing harm to others? That perhaps it's also about allowing yourself the chance to discover meaning along the way?"

"That sounds suspiciously like optimism, Dr. Morgan."

"I prefer to call it professional observation. In our sessions, you've spoken about poetry, about literature, about the beauty you find in language. That suggests a capacity for connection that isn't consistent with your self-assessment."

I think about my father's poems, about how seeing my experience through his eyes made me feel simultaneously exposed and understood. "Maybe."

"Would you be willing to try something different this week?" she asks.

"Depends what it is."

"Write something. Not for a class. Or for me. Just for yourself."

"I haven't written anything real in... a long time."

"Then perhaps it's time to start again." She glances at the clock. "Our time is almost up, but I want to acknowledge the courage it took to speak so honestly today."

I nod, suddenly exhausted. "Same time next week?"

"I'll be here." She pauses. "And Jamie? If the floor starts to feel like it's not enough, call me. Day or night."

"I will."

As I leave her office, I realize I believe myself when I say it.

***

That evening, I call Eliza as promised.

"So," she says after we exchange greetings, "you read Dad's poems."

"Some of them. They're... intense."

"Tell me about it. I cried for two days after he showed them to me."

"Why didn't you ever tell me it was Dad who found me? Not you?"

She sighs. "It was my idea to let you think it was me. You were so fragile after, and your relationship with Dad was already complicated. I thought... I thought it would be easier for you to face me."

"It was."

"I know. But I've regretted it ever since. Secrets have a way of distorting things."

I think about all the secrets we've kept from each other, all the careful omissions and protective lies. "I saw Dr. Morgan today. My counselor."

"Good session?"

"I actually talked. Really talked."

"Wow. Alert the media."

I laugh despite myself. "Shut up."

"I'm proud of you, you know. For getting through yesterday. For all of it."

"I didn't do it alone."

"No one does." She pauses. "Hey, I was thinking of coming up this weekend. If that's okay?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. I could take you and Dad to dinner. Someplace nice."

"I'd like that."

After we hang up, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. I create a new document and stare at the blank page for a long time. Finally, I type a title: "The View from the Floor."

I begin to write.

***

Three days later, I'm back on my dorm room floor, but this time I'm not counting ceiling tiles. I'm reading what I've written, searching for the courage to do what I've decided to do.

My phone vibrates with a text from my father: Are we still meeting Eliza for dinner at 7?

I reply: Yes. But can you come by my room first? I have something to show you.

On my way.

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at my door. I open it to find my father standing there, looking uncertain in a way that makes him seem younger somehow.

"Come in," I say, stepping back.

He enters the small space, glancing around at my sparse decorations, at the bed with its rumpled sheets, at the desk where my laptop sits open.

"I wrote something," I tell him, gesturing to the computer. "A poem, I think? Or maybe just... words."

He looks genuinely surprised. "May I read it?"

I nod, feeling strangely calm. "I'd like that."