A Step in the Other Direction

A man drenched in blood stands precariously upon the edge of a cliff. With shoulders slumped, he peers over the edge; he sees nothing. Just beyond the tips of his feet there is only darkness. Glancing over his shoulder he is offered no change. The pressing darkness closes in from every direction. He hears voices, distant but clear; they are addressing him but they do not know his name. They speak broken shards of truth, piercing his flesh, causing the blood to flow ever more freely from his body. His breathing is ragged but his hands are steady, one tightly clutching a crumpled piece of paper. His head hangs but his eyes, though there are none to see, burn clear with passion. Blood flowing from his arm drips onto the wad of paper. Slowly, ever so slowly, the words become unreadable, lost forever to all who may one day desire to know what meaning they held. Just a few yards away from the man’s feet are the frayed ends of ropes, all that remains of the bridge that once crossed the vast depth before him. From the man’s other hand a knife now falls, the knife used to cut the bonds that once tied him to the other side. It clatters loudly against the edge of the cliff and then drops out of sight. He lifts his head and looks one last time across the distance, a final attempt to discern a glimmer of light. There is nothing. After a moment, he turns from the darkness before him to the darkness behind him. He takes a step. The weight upon his shoulders lightens; the change it is small but it is perceivable. It is freeing. He takes another step and then stops. He looks toward the bloodied piece of paper in his right hand and then lets it too fall to the ground. He knows that none will ever cross that distance to find it. He knows that his words lie safe out in the open. His breathing eases slightly as he continues his journey into the new unknown. Soon, the edge of the cliff behind him vanishes out of sight, though he knows it not for he does not turn again.