I was hanging onto my life by a literal thread. I hung onto one of the ropes from the plane. As the only survivor of a tragic plane accident, I was waiting for the authorities to come and help me.
The metal groaned and shifted, and I could feel my grip loosening. So much blood was pouring out from the wound in my leg.
I heard sirens come by and a car door opening and closing.
“Hold on Miss! We’ll get you out!” One of the paramedics shouted. I could see black spots dancing in my vision. I was going to lose consciousness soon.
I gritted my teeth and held on tighter, clenching my hands around the rope, and prayed they would get me up soon. Black spots again danced around my eyes, but I didn’t lose my grip.
“We’re coming, hold on!” One of the paramedics dropped a ladder and started climbing down. The ladder didn’t quite reach me.
I could tell that I wasn’t going to last much longer before falling. Especially not with the gigantic cut in my leg bleeding out. My grip suddenly slipped, and I went down a little farther on the rope.
I managed to spit out, “Hurry,” before I started coughing. My hands slipped again, this time, a little bit further. I was at the end of the rope.
A few seconds later, the paramedic reached the end of the ladder. He bent down and reached out his hand.
“Grab my hand!”
“I--Can’t-” I sputtered.
I quickly reached out my right hand to grab his hand, but my left hand slipped, and I missed his hand. I fell, supposedly, to my death.
But, somehow, I survived.