Dirt and grass crunch beneath my feet as I move them into position. I push my stubborn hair back out of my face, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, and count to three.
Grass flies up from beneath my feet as I sprint across the large podium, my eyes set only on the first ring. This is it. I just have to wrap my hand around that first ring. I can feel the wind whip across my cheeks, the icy air biting into my skin. Red waves break free from their bindings and fly in a symphony of chaos behind me.
The bones in my injured knee protest at the speed I’m forcing it into, but when my feet leave the ground, and nothingness sits underneath me, I’m thankful for the exertion and painful massages I put it through. Although my palms are past the point of sweaty, by some miracle, the grip that I land on the first ring is solid and true. My body swings in a heavy momentum back and forth as I just hang on for dear life.
Thank fuck I ran as hard as I did, or I would already be dead.
The first ring is set farther back than it looks from the podium, almost as if it’s an illusion. Pain radiates across my shoulders as I hang from the ring and try to get my bearings.
One down, only nineteen more to go.
Fuck me sideways.
Squinting, I look in the direction of the next ring. It’s overcast, but snow from the surrounding mountains still makes it hell on the eyes. If I misjudge even a fraction, it could be fatal. I rock my hips back and forth, needing more momentum to swing one arm to the next ring. This is the hardest part in this particular trial, in my opinion, moving from a two-handed grip to a one-handed grip.
I push back against the self-doubt and fear. There isn’t room for it.
Once I’ve gained enough momentum, I shoot my left hand forward, grabbing onto the next ring. My head falls back inrelief. I close my eyes for a moment and thank whoever is watching over me today.
Apparently, death doesn’t want me just yet.
If I can just keep up this cadence, I might make it to the end. Confidence that I didn’t necessarily have a few minutes ago blooms in my chest, and I keep swinging my hips, releasing my right hand and grabbing onto the third ring. The bitter cold is actually working in my favor right now, drying up the sweat on my palms and keeping me cool despite my rising body temperature. Very carefully, I flex my fingers around the rings, keeping the blood flowing, and adjust the weight in each hand.
I continue to swing my hips and move onto ring after ring.
After a while, I forget I’m hanging eighty-four feet in the air and pretend it’s just like when I was a kid. We would swing from clotheslines, windows, trees, basically anything a kid shouldn’t be hanging from.
It’s just me and four remaining rings by the time my arms start screaming in defiance. For having weak upper-body strength, I lasted longer than I thought I would. Every muscle and tendon in them is currently fighting for its life, and it feels like they’re going to war against one another. I’m so close. I just have to hang on a little bit longer, and it’ll all be over.
I will not die a senseless death.
I won’t fucking fail.
I just have to keep repeating it to myself.
A scream of fury tears through my throat, and I force my arm to reach out for the next ring. Fluid trickles between my fingers, running down my wrist before landing right below my eye. It’s as if I am crying tears of pus at this point. The padding at the base of my fingers is absolutely shredded. Between the fall off the side of the mountain and hanging from the rope to dangling from these rings, my hands have been to hell and back.
The tears are making my grip less stable, and I know I need to get my ass on that next podium sooner rather than later. I rotate my head in a small circle to ease some of the tension in my shoulders.
The prospect going after me is now standing on the grass, scrutinizing my every move. He’s smart, trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t, just like I did. “Here’s to hoping the outcome is a little bit different from the one before me,” I whisper to myself.
I put everything I have into my next few swings. My body has been pushed to its limit, the soft muscles screaming at me and begging for mercy. To give them the smallest reprieve from the abuse I’m putting them through.
The minute my feet land on the grass, I immediately collapse on all fours. For a second, I just stay in this position. My forehead pressed into the grass and my ass in the air. Once I feel like I’m not going to pass out, I roll over onto my back, the grass sticking to my sweaty neck, and allow my gaze to float across the open sky.
I sigh out a breath of relief.
Ominous gray skies hover above me, but I find beauty in their somber desolation. Right now, I would find beauty in just about anything. It’s funny, how when faced with your own mortality, everything suddenly becomes more precious.
The intense pain in my palms reminds me that my heart is still beating. The burning in my arms implies they can still come out swinging. My short breaths are proof that my lungs are still working.
I did it.
I punch the air.
I fucking did it.
Chapter eight
