The Ledge

I can feel the panic slowly spreading through my body, as my hands go numb. My heartbeat racing, like that of a wild animal, as the jaws of death close around it's throat. My body is fully extended, as my hands clutch desperately at the uneven surface above and my toes balance the narrow ledge.

Breathe

I force myself to gulp in a lungful of the humid air, refusing to fail, refusing to fall. The sun is beating down on my face, it's making me squint. I feel a bead of sweat slowly run from my brow, down my the side of my face, where it lingers for a moment. I can feel the droplet, a tingling itch clinging to my skin. My heartbeat drums in my chest as I wait. Hoping it will defy the odds. Willing it to prevail.

For a breath or two, I think it might.

Then gravity seizes it's prize and the sweat falls, relinquishing it's hold on my jaw and vanishing. When it hits the ground, there will be a tiny splat as it shatters into a mess of a thousand droplets. These will rapidly soak into the dry ground. Gone. Just a hint of dampness left behind. And after a few minutes the sun will erase even that.

I can't be like that bead of sweat. I can't let gravity claim me. I have to hold on.

Time drips by, seconds feel like days.

Already my knuckles are turning white, as the blood drains down my arms. My heart is labouring – an engine that has been firing non-stop for 32 years. I hope it doesn't fail me now.

But reliable as it is, a heart is a puny force against the relentless pull of the earth. My fists are a milky-yellow. Blue veins gently pulse below the pallid skin. Almost like a gourmet cheese. The sort you'd find in a fancy corner deli. The thought makes my mouth water. My stomach growl.

The muscles in my fingers start to whimper. I know how quickly a whimper can turn into a roar. I must snuff out the rebellion before it begins. Otherwise, the muscles might start to talk amongst themselves, to openly complain, to unionise and demand better treatment. Or worse, they might quit altogether. That would mean disaster.

I need to distract them, to distract myself. For weeks I have been pushing any thoughts of food from my mind. Dreaming of a banquet when your body is slowly starving does no good, it only makes the hunger worse. You start to lose your mind, as you spend more and more time in a fantasy world.

But as my arms start to cry, I allow my mind to picture a calorie rich spread of all my favourite dishes. Lasagne, with cheese sprinkled between each layer. A huge pot of vegetable soup, with dozens of lemon and parsley dumplings. Crispy pizza, with a rich tomato sauce and creamy mozzarella. Sweet, pink watermelon, the juice dripping down my elbows. A freshly baked scone, generously spread with clotted cream and topped with half a teaspoon of homemade loganberry jelly. Rich chocolate cake, with a jammy apricot filling and a decadent ganache. Greek salad, with succulent ripe tomatoes, slightly pungent feta, salty olives and freshly diced cucumber and capsicum.

It's an exquisite kind of torture. I can almost taste the flavours. Almost. I have to swallow, to stop the drool from running from the corners of my mouth.

But the pain in my shoulders...my arms...my hands...drags me back. My fists are aching, but there's also a slight tingling – like pins and needles. While clinging on, I try to grip a little tighter, then release just slightly, in an effort to coax the blood back into my hands. If I miscalculate and loosen my grip too much, it will all be over.

I have to hold on.

For me. For my mum. For my little boy.

Jackson, with his button nose, thick lashes and shock of curls. Who loves to bake cupcakes and collects oddly shaped leaves, which he keeps pressed between the pages of the dictionary. Jackson, who's gap-toothed smile makes my heart melt.

My eyes are stinging with tears, as I picture him at home, wondering where I am. Not understanding why his mum has left him. Does he think I've abandoned him? A sob racks my body.

The small movement makes my hand slip just a little. I feel a jolt of energy pass through my body as I imagine falling. That was close. Too close. I almost let go.

It's getting harder to ignore my body. The cry is turning into a howl. My muscles are becoming stiff and pain is mushrooming in all directions. But so is a numbness.

How long has is been? Minutes? Hours?

My body wants to give up, wants this to be over. But my mind doesn't. My mind was strong. My mind is in control. I am a survivor. I can do this.

For a few minutes, I feel good. I feel strong. I feel in control.

Then my body starts to tremble. It starts with a twitch somewhere around my left elbow, then a tremor. I try to force myself to be still, but this elbow has a mind of it's own. Soon it's shaking. The movement feels wild and dangerous – balancing as I am on the flimsiest of ledges.

I try to imagine the tips of my fingers – digging into the surface. Sticky like frog fingers. Stuck with superglue. Motionless. Effortless.

Superglue. I remembered using it to mend a shoe when I was little – squeezing just a couple of drops between the rubber sole and the leather upper – and squeezing them tight until it dried. I'd stuck half of my fingers together in the process and my mum had doused them with nail polish remover to un-stick them again.

Would superglue hold my weight? If I put a pearl of it under each finger, pressed them down and waited the 90 seconds for it to dry, would that work? Would it hold my 60 kilograms? It was probably less now, I'd lost a lot of weight in the last week or so.

I can hear heavy breathing. Is it my own? Then a clatter and a thud, somewhere to my left. I try to ignore it, drown out the world, focus on holding on.

Is that a voice?

No, I have to focus. I can feel my hand slipping again. Another thud. I reposition my left hand. Another thud. I move my right a little over. Another thud.

My body is screaming, begging, pleading for me to let go.

Another thud.

I won't. I can't. I try to picture Jackson. I have to hold on. For him.

Another thud.

I try to picture his sweet face.

Then footsteps.

“And the winner of this challenge is Claire!”

It's over. I can let go. I allow my hands to slip, my legs turn to jelly and I fall – half a metre onto the hot sand.

“Congratulations Claire. You have won immunity this week. Nobody can vote you off the show. And you also get this peanut butter sandwich.”

My hands are completely numb. White – but I watch, mesmerised at the blood slowly starts to flow back into them.

“Please rejoin the group and head back to camp.”

One of the other contestants helps me to my feet and I lean on her, as we follow the retreating camera-man back down the beach. Munching on my peanut butter sandwich.