In retrospect, Vince Ainsley should have been more conscious of retaining balance than paying so much attention to his unmatched socks, especially at the top of the unfamiliar rickety stairs. Hindsight always sounds like a know-it-all you want to punch in the damn face.
That said, he took a serious tumble, falling down three flights of stairs, end over end. Had he tucked his chin in, he could have executed perfect consecutive backwards somersaults. Instead, he was a clumsy mass of flesh and bones making a lot of noise. He destroyed himself and lost many things. His keys, his dignity, his teeth, and his crucial memories. As he laid on the floor, body contorted unnaturally, he moaned, “Mommy.”
He felt cursed as his mangled disposition forced him to confront his unmatched socks up close.