no anchors

dark flash fiction

Photo by Vasile Valcan on Unsplash

no anchors

There was nowhere to anchor the rope, so Brad kept a tight hold, even after it began to bite into his flesh. Blood wept onto the narrow rock ledge below, speckling it red. He didn’t bother checking how much slack remained. He knew it wasn’t enough.

He forced his mind to ignore this reality, focusing instead on the fire in his hands and the pressure in his clenched jaw. Every atom of his being shrieked for relief. But the thought of Anton dangling somewhere at the end of the rope kept him hanging on.

In the back of his mind, Brad knew that if he didn’t let go soon, they’d both fall. But he shoved this thought aside, too. Lucky for him, the pain was intense enough to blot out everything else. He was lost inside himself when the voice floated up from beyond the rocky ledge at his feet.

“You know what you have to do, Brad.” A pause. “We’ve tried every viable anchor point. None will hold.” Then that phrase again. “You know what you have to do.”

Brad pictured Anton—who had once given him piggybacks and noogies aplenty, Anton, his big brother—hanging suspended in midair so many feet below. How far was the drop to the bottom? Three hundred feet? Four?

Unbridled now, Brad’s mind raced.

Would he fall straight? Or hit something on the way down? Would he scream? At 185 pounds, would Anton even have time to reach terminal velocity before he—

Brad slammed the brakes on that train of thought.

An eternity passed in the space of half a minute.

Then Anton’s voice again. “Brad?”

Brad stayed silent. He didn’t want to answer. To respond was to acknowledge the brutal truth dangling at the end of the line.

“Don’t blame yourself. I should have listened to you back at the ridge… I’m sorry, Brad.”

Brad almost scoffed. He was sorry? Brad wasn’t the one about to be dashed into—

The weight on the line shifted. Not much, but enough to drag Brad’s feet an inch closer to the edge.

“You gotta cut me loose, Brad. I’m sorry—but you gotta let me go, bud,” the voice said. Anton’s voice—his brother’s voice—dripped with pity. And maybe that was the worst part.

At least, it was until a minute later, when the line suddenly went slack, sending Brad careening into the rock face. And for a moment, everything turned liquid, as if time was sliding past him in slow motion, the way fast-moving water can sometimes look stolid from just the right angle.

Then came a heavy, wet sound, like a sodden towel dropped on a tile floor.

At last, Brad released the rope. He watched it slither over the ledge, just as Anton had done.

But he never heard it land.

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