The First Time I Died (iii. The Climb)

All is silent. The wind whispers tales of desolation across the reddish, rocky terrain. Hope is merely a pipe dream. It is then that we see the hand. The knuckles are white, the tendons pulled rack-tight as the hand grips the mountain shelf. The body follows, slowly at first. Decorated with scars, holes, and rainbow-colored welts, the body has withstood more than any ever should. Skin hangs in shreds, but still the body pushes onward, upward. Things appear from the crevasse below. They grasp and tear at the legs. The legs lose momentum, but only for a moment. The mind is clear, the heart restrung and solid. Mightily, the legs kick the things, which fall back down whence they came. Hand over weathered hand, foot over blistered foot, the figure moves on. The top is in sight. The eyes adjust. One more strain of the shoulders, and the figure collapses at the peak. The soul weeps.

You made it through.