The wind blew softly against his cheeks, rustling through his hair and cooling his skin. His eyes looked out and the view from where he stood, high, so high. His feet were planted firmly and his chest was full with a sense of pride. He had made it. He had arrived to his destination. It had been such a tough, tough climb. Certainly, he'd slipped a few times, fallen even, but he had perservered. He had done it. The view was glorious. He'd thought about climbing higher, farther up the slope to the next plateau but just didn't feel ready for it. This view was plenty enough. The sun's rays warmed his face and the vision was glorious.
It took him by complete surprise really. One moment he was planted firm, strong, confident, the next his limbs were flailing, grabbing, gripping, searching for a handhold to save him from the fall. He's not even sure what pushed him, if anything even pushed him. Groping as he fell, his hand caught hold of the edge and he halted abruptly. His body swung, precariously, and he exhaled in slight relief. Then his hand began to slip. He pressed his fingers into the rock, willing himself to stop but the dusty grit that rested upon the plateau would not allow it. Slowly, then more quickly, he began to slip. He fell.
The tumble was strange, so quiet, so, so quiet. His lungs couldn't seem to even gather the breath to scream, to cry out for help. He worked his arms frantically, yet he could not fly. His vision became blurred as the world sped past him. Then, all faded to black.
Those who watched the event happen from afar, and some from nearer than the young man realized, told the story. They told of how the young man, tall and proud, had approached the ledge and tilted his head, almost as if listening to a voice. A shadow fell over his face and they watched him jump.
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