How to Get a Leg Up in Life The Weight of the Mountain (The Second Cut)(Part 1) Ah, the mountaintop — a place that commands awe and terror in equal measure. The knife is in my hand again. It feels heavier than ever, as though it carries the weight of every failure that brought us here. I think of you, lying there in the snow, barely conscious. Your face is gaunt, your skin a sickly gray. You’ve given all you can give. You’ve given too much. And now, it’s my turn to pay the price. But the price feels wrong, twisted. It’s not just my flesh the mountain is asking for — it’s my dignity, my hope, my humanity. The first cut felt like survival. This one feels like surrender. I press the blade to my leg, and the cold steel bites into my skin. It’s easier to cut into yourself than you’d think. The pain is sharp and blinding, but it’s not the worst part. The worst part is the sound — the tearing of muscle, the crunch of bone. The twang of tendons snapping and recoiling, ligaments severing, and joints forced through. It’s the sound of your own destruction, and it stays with you long after the pain that never fades. Blood pours out, warm and sticky, pooling around me in the snow. I look at you, my best friend, the one person I trusted more than anyone, and I wonder if you’re watching. If you care. If you’re even still alive. The answer doesn’t matter. The mountain doesn’t care about fairness or friendship. It doesn’t care who gave first or who took last. All it cares about is taking everything from us, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. “This time, it’s me,” you said. The words felt hollow, rehearsed. You weren’t trying to convince me, and I wasn’t trying to stop you. We both knew how it would end. I nodded, not out of agreement, but because nodding was easier than saying the words that were clawing at my throat. “Okay.” We’d done this before. The jagged cut. The quiet groans. The smell of blood that should have felt horrifying but now seemed mundane. It didn’t matter who held the knife. It didn’t matter whose leg was offered. We’d already lost more than flesh. The second cut wasn’t about survival. It was about finishing the story. Your hands trembled as you made the incision. Or maybe it was mine. I couldn’t tell anymore. The blade bit into skin, then deeper, and we didn’t flinch. We had no tears left to shed. No voices left to raise. The mountain watched. The mountain didn’t care.
