How to Get a Leg Up in Life The First Cut The mountain doesn’t care. It’s too ancient, too enduring to bother itself with the fleeting concerns of two fragile beings. Yet here we are, you and I, best friends at the edge of survival, locked in the kind of unthinkable conversation that only the mountain could provoke. We’ve joked about it before, haven’t we? In the comfort of warm fires and full bellies, the hypothetical scenarios where life forces you to decide: who gets the short straw? It was funny then, a dark absurdity that made us laugh until tears streamed down our faces. But now, the laughter is gone. The mountain has stripped away everything but the truth: one of us won’t walk away with both legs. Maybe neither of us will walk away at all. “I’d do it for you,” you say, your voice steady, like it’s the simplest truth you’ve ever spoken. But I see the flicker in your eyes, the hesitation that betrays your words, he who talks fastest laughs least, as are all first words to breach the veil of our consideration, the only first words, fear. The wind howls louder, and I almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Two best friends, bound by years of loyalty and shared struggles, reduced to arguing over whose leg looks tastier. “Yeah?” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my cracked lips. “What about the second time?” Your silence is louder than the wind. It stretches between us, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of the mountain itself. We both know the truth: the one who sacrifices first sets a precedent, but the one who resists gains something else entirely. The asshole survives. And isn’t that the cruel logic of life? The asshole wins. I’m not going to lie; it stings. The thought of you hesitating, of weighing my worth against your own survival, is almost too much to bear. But as I meet your eyes, I see something else, something that mirrors the pain in my chest. You’re not calculating, not selfish. You’re just scared. And that’s fair. The mountain makes us all its pawns. “All right, then,” I say, my tone lighter than it should be. “Let’s be fair about it. I’ll go first this time.” You nod, your face pale and drawn. Neither of us says what we’re really thinking: if there is a next time, who decides then? The storm rages on, a crescendo of biting cold and relentless winds. The first cut is messy, jagged, a far cry from the surgical precision we’d joked about back in the comfort of safety. But you grit your teeth, and I do too, and somehow, we make it through. The days blur together, pain mingling with hunger, desperation mixing with something like hope. But this time, the balance has shifted. You’re stronger now, fed on the flesh of my considered self sacrifice, and I’m weaker, clinging to the fading scraps of my resolve to honor. “It’s only fair,” I murmur, the words slurring as they leave my lips. “Yeah,” you say softly. But your hands don’t move.
