My feet slap against the cold stone, hands groping air for the whipping line of rope that slashes too fast toward the edge of the cliff. A leap, feet pushing off, sending my body nearly horizontal. Shoulders aching from the strain of reaching, trying to grab that rope. That rope is life.

One hand grips, the burn as the rope slides. The momentum too much, blood brought out and making the line slick. Second hand on, barely. Hold.

The weight of my friend catches, rope goes tight. The pop of arm coming out of socket, I’m sliding forward on my belly refusing to let go. Edge coming closer, only one arm holding, the other a ball of pain trying to cave my mind and make me let go. Blood makes it hard to hold on, the rope pulls my arm over the edge. I am an anchor staring over the edge, I am an anchor but I am too weak, all I can do is hold.

The whimper from below, harness cutting into flesh. His voice is so far away, I can see him now. He can see me, the rope is sliding, burning, more blood. It’s too hard to hold.