'The Drop' by Samuel Grainger


We called it ‘The Drop’. It’s fifty metres to the grey shingle below. The wind is strong; it takes your breath from your throat and pulls at your clothes. It’s never quiet, or peaceful, it’s a heart pumper, I’m all too aware of the height; I’m seconds from floating out, with the dandelion seeds. I’m brittle up here at the The Drop.

We sat facing each other. I spat onto my palm, and Nick spat onto his.
“If it all gets too much, if we know we can’t look back, if it feels right, if we can’t take anymore, we’ll come back to this spot, on The Drop, and we’ll grab hands, and we’ll jump.”
We grab hands, and we shake.

I know why we did it now. It is a beautiful place to do it. You’re always thinking I could go. Right now and there’s always something stopping you when your toes are hooked to the rock. You never quite obey that feeling of stepping out.
Not me, at least.

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