Flash Fiction

Cliffhanger.

I was hanging by threads. Beneath me, the drop was maybe 30m. We were at arms length again. But that’s how our relationship has always been. The fall far enough down, to break some bones and maybe kill me.

I estimate a few bounces off the rock wall, then the sudden rocks below. A dull roar floats up from the waves breaking against the cliff. Pale mist hangs in the air, settling effervescent spume on the backs of my hands. Maybe if I timed it right, the waves might cushion my fall.

I am beyond grateful he is holding the bag so tight, bracing himself, bottom on the ground and both feet splayed out, heels and soles digging in. But the grass at the edge is slick and soft. He is sliding on it, centimeter by centimeter, unable to get a good grip. Despite everything, he is trying to save me. I keep swearing at him anyway.

Him, holding the handle end. Me, grasping the body of the bag. Grey silky nylon or polyester between us. A complementary carrier, from Katie‘s or Countrywide, I can’t remember which. One loose thread just at the corner, is working its way loose, unravelling fraction by fraction. The other stitches, are stretched taught and the seam itself widening, where it gathers into my fist. I am still swearing. How dare he dare me, to that edge.

I am trying to figure what will give first; My hands or his; or maybe the bag itself. He is tugging hard, and yes, my white knuckles are creeping upwards, closer to the rocky edge. I am trying to figure, if he can hold the bag tight and grab my hand at the same time. Close as we are, our weights balanced unevenly across the stone lip, neither of us can seize wrist or even the damp fingers of the other. And yes, the threads along the seam are stretching wider.

Am I scared? Yes, terrified. But there is so much adrenalin powering through me, I can feel the hot froth of my heart, surging in my throat, beat after beat. My hands ache unbearably. I cling. I cling dearly, as if I can trust him.

He is shouting something.

Fucking instructions!

I can’t hear them, between the wind, and the waves.

I am crying. Salt on my lips. Or is that spray?

I don’t care. Part of me, wants to be released. Get it over with.

I catch through the roar of wind and waves, “…old on…someone’s coming….”

Jeez, relationships!