| FORTITUDE His fingers slipped. All the time he had spent, a regular Steven Segal, a regular cliff hanger, all that time spent was wasted. If only he wasn't sweating so much, then we wouldn't be slipping. But there was a fine layer of moisture slowly coating his hands, and he slipped again. All that held on now were the tips of his fingers. He looked down. He estimated a 3,000 foot drop in the white Arizona sun to the ground. He imagined himself falling, his body a limp doll in the hands of a law of physics. He slipped again. All that held on now were his fingernails, the ones he refused to cut. He felt as if there was a small tack being driven into each one of his cuticles. And then, with a loud rip, all of his fingernail simultaneously popped off. He had promised himself he wouldn't scream on the way down, but he lied. He screamed for his life. He screamed for his bloody nailless fingers. But most of all, he screamed for his ascent to the red Arizona dust at 9.8 meters per second per second. He hit the gound hard. He was dazed and suprised that he had survived the fall as he looked up. He chuckled. His depth perception wasn't what it used to be. He started to breathe again, so he sat up, unharmed. Then 8 blood covered fingernails rained into his lap from the sky above. The cliff echoed his vulguar exclamation as he was reminded of the pain, diving backwards. He bit his lip very hard in a fetal poistion until the pain died down. Not realizing that his fingernails would grow back, the thought crossed his mind that he would never be able to open a beer can again and a tear rolled down his face. This was the worst thing that could posssibly happen to him, considering the fact that he loved beer. Then another thought crossed his mind, this time a much darker one. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a revolver he kept for shooting rocks when he was bored. He slowly put the black Arizona barrel into his mouth, staring blankly ahead. He tried to pull the trigger but it hurt too much. |