The Canyon's Edge

by Dusti Bowling

  in this desert.

  And so I never wanted

  to disappoint them by telling them

  I’m terrified of heights.

  FALLING

  Looking down for another foothold,

  my hair falls forward

  over my eyes.

  I blow at it,

  but it flops right back.

  I can’t see.

  I can’t see another foothold.

  I release one of my hands

  and push my hair back,

  but as soon as I look down

  for another foothold,

  it falls in my face.

  I tuck it behind my ears

  as securely as I can.

  I move my foot to a small

  foothold and settle it firmly.

  But when I lift my other leg,

  I slip.

  The rough wall

  tears my skin,

  peels fresh layers

  off my arms and knees and shins.

  The ground knocks

  the wind out of my lungs,

  and I claw at my chest,

  trying to find the air,

  my whole body

  stinging with scrapes

  and scratches and tears.

  NO ONE

  I braid my hair again.

  Once more I find the footholds,

  going faster,

  keeping my body close to the wall

  to save my energy,

  using my legs more than my arms.

  One step at a time, Eleanor.

  Soon, I’m ten feet above the ground.

  Thunder booms loud enough to rattle

  my teeth, my insides, my fingers.

  They tremble as I look down

  for a new foothold.

  My hair breaks free,

  falls in my face,

  my stomach lurching

  from both seeing

  and then not being able to see.

  My body is shaking,

  my breaths coming too fast and hard.

  I might vomit.

  This was a mistake, a horrible mistake.

  What was I thinking?

  I can’t do this.

  I need to get back down.

  Pushing my hair behind my ears,

  I look for a way down,

  even though I know

  there is none.

  I slipped yesterday

  after the flood because

  no   one   climbs   down.

  YOU CAN

  I’m shivering and sweating,

  losing all the water

  I’ve drunk, and worse,

  my fingers will get slippery.

  A flash of light, and I wait

  for the boom to rattle me

  right off this wall.

  You can do it, Eleanor.

  I’m going to fall!

  Self-efficacy, Eleanor.

  Stop telling yourself you can’t succeed.

  The boom comes and goes

  but doesn’t knock me from the rock.

  I look up and find a handhold.

  One step at a time.

  A few more movements,

  and I’m finally able to reach one arm up,

  grip the edge of the cave

  as the rock beneath my foot

  breaks away,

  plummets

  to the canyon floor.

  My body slams

  against the rough wall,

  all breath

  leaving my body

  in a terrified whimper.

  I dangle.

  Are you likely to die in this situation?

  Yes.

  CAVE

  I kick and flail

  and stub toes

  and tear toenails

  and shred heels,

  trying desperately

  to hang on

  to the wall.

  Breathe, Eleanor.

  You’re almost there.

  I peer through my hair

  for a foothold,

  my arms shaking

  to hold my full weight.

  I find one.

  I settle my bare foot firmly

  and pull myself up,

  grunting,

  growling,

  teeth grinding

  with the effort.

  I crawl the few feet

  across the small cave

  and lean back against

  a bumpy wall of stone,

  waiting for my heart

  and breathing to calm,

  grateful I mostly used my legs

  for the climb instead of my arms.

  They wouldn’t have held otherwise.

  I toss my rope and boots on the floor.

  It’s cool in here, but the icy canyon winds

  won’t freeze my shredded skin,

  and raging floodwaters can’t reach me.

  I hope they can’t reach Dad, either,

  wherever he is.

  ANGER

  Watch your anger cues:

  heart racing, body shaking,

  breath out of control.

  RAGE

  My head topples forward,

  and my hair once more

  falls in my face.

  I breathe so hard that my hair

  rises and falls,

  rises and falls,

  with my hyperventilating.

  I pull the razor-sharp chunk of shale

  from my pocket.

  Make sure you’re being kind to yourself, Eleanor,

  no matter how angry you feel.

  I press one finger

  to the edge until it stings

  before grasping several long strands.

  I rub the sharp stone against my hair

  until it tears apart,

  gripping the sharp shale

  with so much force

  that it cuts into my hands

  and blood drips

  onto the floor of the cave.

  Make sure you’re being kind to your body.

  I work at

  hacking,

  tearing,

  ripping,

  sawing

  my hair out,

  piece by piece.

  Never, ever harm yourself.

  It takes forever with the rock.

  It tears the roots out of my scalp,

  leaving my hair jagged.

  Pay attention to your anger cues.

  But I won’t leave a single piece of hair

  that can fall in my face

  ever again.

  What can you do to manage that anger?

  My teeth clench and my body vibrates

  and my heart races with rage as I

  hack,

  tear,

  rip,

  saw

  my hair out.

  Relax your body.

  When I’m done, I feel the cave floor

  covered in my hair, and my hands

  covered in blood, and my head

  covered in an uneven, torn

  mop of only

  After hair.

  Remember your deep breathing.

  My rage overflows

  as I throw the brittle chunk of slate

  against the cave wall,

  and it shatters into pieces.

  SCREAMING

  And I scream

  and scream

  and scream.

  And my screams

  fill

  the cave, and they

  spill

  over the side, blending into the

  trill

  of the red-spotted toads and into the

  shrill

  of the cold, windy canyon,

  and the winds carry

  my screams away.

  I’m screaming out

  the last of my water,

  but I can’t stop.

  I scream until my chapped lips

  are stretched so thin

  the cracks open and
bleed

  into my mouth.

  I scream until my voice

  crackles and breaks and then is gone.

  I reach out and swipe the hair

  away from my body,

  scatter the hair

  across the cave floor,

  push it frantically over the side.

  When lightning flashes, I see

  my bloodied hands have left

  dark streaks across the stone.

  The hair slides over the edge

  of the cave into the canyon

  to be carried away by the winds

  along with my screams.

  GONE

  Collapsing against the wall of the cave,

  I drop my face into my bloodied hands.

  My energy is

  gone.

  My voice is

  gone.

  My Before hair is

  gone,

  along with all of my Before.

  FEELING

  Being alive means

  sorrow, joy, pain, love, anger.

  Feeling all the things.

  NUMB

  I pull my legs up to my chest

  and gently rock,

  my feet pressed to the cave floor,

  the bumpy wall digging

  into my back with the movement.

  I focus on securing my wall.

  I shove muddy

  globs in the holes.

  I stuff bloody

  rags in the cracks.

  I smear reeking

  black tar over the surface

  so nothing can get through.

  Don’t build your wall, Eleanor.

  This is too painful. I need it.

  No, you don’t.

  It will only make you numb.

  Numb sounds nice.

  It’s not.

  You won’t just be numb to pain,

  but numb to joy, numb to compassion,

  numb to love.

  Living means feeling.

  Tell me, Eleanor,

  do you want to be dead?

  No.

  Because no longer feeling means

  you are dead.

  PIERCING

  A sharp pinch in my back

  pierces my numbness,

  shows me I’m still alive.

  It feels as though someone

  has stabbed me

  with a saguaro needle.

  I let go of my knees

  and grasp frantically at my back.

  And now something is

  crawling,

  creeping

  on my skin.

  I let out a soundless shriek,

  jump up and hit my head

  on the low ceiling.

  Another sharp pinch.

  I’ve been stung twice.

  By what I don’t know.

  Dizzy from the blow

  to my head,

  I struggle to peel off

  my tank top

  in the small space,

  then throw it in the corner of the cave

  away from me.

  I grab my boots and strike and slap and slam them

  against my shirt in the flickering light,

  trying to kill whatever might be inside.

  When lightning strikes,

  I see the scorpion crawling out

  and smash it again with my boots.

  I try to make out what kind it is

  in the flashing light.

  The small size and shape

  tell me all I need to know.

  STUNG

  I have been stung

  by a bark scorpion,

  the most venomous

  scorpion in the desert.

  Twice.

  My thirsty veins

  desperately lap up

  every drop of venom.

  My back begins to burn.

  The flame spreads

  like ripples over my skin.

  Someone has taken a

  blowtorch to my outsides

  and filled my insides with ice.

  My head

  spins.

  My tongue

  swells.

  My muscles

  twitch.

  My eyes

  roll.

  My insides

  roil.

  I lie on my side,

  pull my legs up to my bare chest,

  and concentrate on not vomiting

  what muddy water I might have left

  in my stomach.

  HEART

  I’ve never realized

  how fast, loud, painful a heart

  is able to beat.

  REMEMBER

  I pray for help,

  though I don’t know

  who or what

  could possibly help me

  here inside a hole

  in a wall

  on the side of a canyon.

  How long would it take

  for someone to find my body?

  Will anyone care?

  Will they remember?

  If I die here,

  will people remember

  Café Ardiente?

  Will they remember

  me, Dad, Mom?

  Will they remember

  Sofía Moreno,

  just a regular mom

  with two little boys

  in the booth next to ours?

  Because of what she did,

  maybe I can find the fight

  to keep going.

  But I feel like I’m fading away,

  and I don’t have the strength

  to stop it.

  INSIDE A TENT

  It’s storming outside, light flashing

  through the thin fabric.

  I’m facing a wall—a tent wall.

  I roll over and find Danielle

  bundled in a sleeping bag,

  big brown eyes watching me,

  blankets pulled up to her nose,

  face crinkled so I know

  she’s smiling.

  What?

  I can’t believe you

  threw my fish back.

  It was too small to keep.

  Two bites at best.

  Not even enough for a fish taco.

  I was going to raise it.

  To become a full-sized fish taco?

  Danielle laughs. She has such a funny laugh,

  like someone sped up a video, fast and high-pitched.

  No! For a pet!

  You can’t keep a bluegill for a pet, dork.

  She throws the blankets down, sits up,

  curly black hair a big mess from two days of camping.

  Yes, I could!

  I would have named it Danny.

  Yeah, you could have dressed it in little

  fish clothes and taken it for walks

  in a portable aquarium on wheels.

  We both crack up,

  falling back onto our sleeping bags,

  burying our heads in our pillows.

  Then Danielle sits up again.

  Her smile falls.

  Her eyes widen.

  She looks afraid.

  What? What’s wrong?

  Danielle slowly raises an unsteady finger,

  points at the wall of the tent.

  There’s something out there.

  I turn, press my hand to the fabric.

  It’s cold and hard when it should be

  warm and soft.

  Hand still held to the tent wall,

  I look back at Danielle.

  It’s a monster, Nora.

  ONE LAST LIE

  Please tell me the truth, Eleanor.

  Who is the Beast?

  Don’t

  Ever ask again.

  My answer stands.

  Once and for all, he’s

  Not real.

  HE’S HERE

  A clap of thunder,

  and I’m back in the cave,

  one sore hand pressed

  to the cold ston
e wall.

  I pull my hand away and see

  a dark handprint when the sky

  flickers with light.

  The booms fill the cave,

  and the flashes reveal

  the cave is covered

  with blood.

  And now someone is climbing

  up

  the

  canyon

  wall.

  I hear grunts,

  rocks breaking loose

  and falling to the canyon floor.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  He’s here.

  THINGS I DON’T TELL

  The Beast

  is dead, pale eyes

  and jagged teeth

  and sharp claws

  and camouflaged exoskeleton

  that glows

  by the light of the moon

  like the scorpions

  under Dad’s black light

  that creep up our walls

  and over our ceilings

  and then drop

  into our beds

  and in the worst

  of my nightmares

  the Beast begins

  to molt

  his exoskeleton

  to reveal

  what is underneath

  but I always

  wake up

  before I have

  to know.

  But I can’t wake up

  right now.

  Because   I’m   not   asleep.

  TWO CLAWS

  Ground yourself, Eleanor.

  GASPING AND GRASPING

  I am

  panicking.

  Breathing,

  breathing,

  breathing,

  but can’t

  catch my breath.

  Gasping,

  gasping,

  gasping,

  but there’s no air.

  Lying

  on my side,

  facing what is