The Ghostwriter's Words

Sammy: Halfway to the Top

Halfway to the top, and a long way from the bottom, with his face pressed against the rock wall that he clung to desperately, Sammy vomited more of what had once been excellent Scotch down the front of his shirt and shorts. He'd hoped the waves of vertigo he suffered would eventually wear off, but foolishly looking down again, he'd immediately discovered they hadn't. By then, it seemed he'd vomited far more of what had once been excellent Scotch than would have filled the entire decanter he'd left behind in the gazebo. And what came up was less Scotch and something indefinable and disgusting; until nothing came up as he dry-heaved, which he thought might be worse. The only blessing was that there was no more alcohol left in his stomach for his bloodstream to absorb. And the icy adrenal waves that surged through him, from him recognizing his predicament, which was entirely his fault, were quite sobering. He supposed he could have willed a rope ladder and safety harness to appear, but then what would be the point of all he'd put himself through? Hopefully, if he fell, he'd have the wherewithal not to let himself fall to the ground below. Somehow, the thought that he could catch himself did little to lessen the nauseous wave the visualization of the potential fall triggered within him. But when it had passed, he remained determined to reach the top without resorting to Magick and reached for the next handhold and pulled himself up a few more inches.