Fatigued

You cannot save anyone.  But you can lie there at the edge of her pit with your arm outstretched for her for such a lonely time until the fatigue finally breaks your body and will, your body and will you swore would be strong and never let go of her hand.  And your body relaxes involuntarily with exhaustion; no longer tense with the effort to reach down and down and down; and if this is the moment she lets go—

You cannot save anyone.  But there you are with your hand suddenly free.  Your mind suddenly alert and awake and full of everything.  Everything you stopped saying, everything you stopped hearing, everything you stopped seeing, everything you stopped feeling.  And the most important thing you stopped saying was, "I am here, I am here, hold onto my hand, oh God, I am right here—"

You cannot save anyone.  And now here you are on your porkfat belly stretching out with your too-short T-Rex arm; "I am here, I am here, I am here"; but there is cold air on your fingertips and the well is dark.  It is dark and it is so deep and you listen—you listen to hear if she's hit the bottom or might still be falling, forever; dreading the thump from the bottom, wishing you'd hear the flutter of angelwings—

You are here, you are here, you are here.  And she isn't—