Ausrutschen

His nails tear into my skin. “Maryla, let go.”

“Never.”

I feel the mud under my elbows, the rain on my back, the life between my fingers. “Antoni, don't,” I pull harder than before, the ledge crumbling and sagging. “You pig, you disgusting. Liar! I won't let you. I'll never let you.” My arms bleed and I scream and choke, pulling and pulling and pulling. Yet, he keeps slipping.

God, please. “Maryla, Maryla, you have to let go. They're coming.” He is so gentle and calm and about to die. God, please.

I rip his sleeve with my fingers. “I'm not letting you go.” My body slides forward, the edge and the mud sinking faster and faster. “Remember? Atoni, remember. You promised me,” I am crying, the tears and the rain and mud blinding me. I can't see Antoni. I can't see. “Life, you promised me. Don't be a lying pig and keep up to your word you bastard!” I'm angry at him, angry at god, angry at myself, angry at the Germans and the Italians and the Russians and the mud. I am angry. And he's dying.

“Maryla,” He's breathing too fast. “I promised to be free.”

Freedom is not worth it. Freedom tasted like dirt and misery and it wasn't worth you Antoni. It could never be worth you. I blink and blink and I look down; my hands are bleeding and so are his. He bleeds from everywhere except his smile. Never his smile. And I try to pull him up one more time. God, please.

“I promised.”

He slips.