At the Bottom of the Hole

I’m in a hole again. 

At the top, there are a few hands reaching down to me. 

I go for one. The one that looks the most trustworthy, the nicest. One that might be fun, make me smile and laugh. It’s like a magnet. I’m attracted and I can’t explain it. The hand is strong and firm. Rough, yet comforting. The grasp around my own small hand feels tight, secure. 

So I start to pull myself up. 

But something is wrong. 
I’m not strong enough. 

No. 

I’m trying. I'm giving it my all.

But the hand...it isn’t pulling hard enough. 

I am stuck, hanging in midair. 

Our hands begin to sweat.

Don’t let go! Please find the courage not to let go. Try harder. 

I squeeze my hand tighter. 
But it’s no use. 
It won’t work. 

And suddenly, the hand opens up and I come crashing down to the bottom of the hole again.

I look up. 
It’s an empty space. No hands wait for me. None look for me. 

I cry. 
I yell. 

I talk out loud to some unknown higher power. But only in these times. The ones in which I feel nothing will ever go right. The ones in which the uncontrollable proves itself to me once again.

You cannot control me. It taunts me. It haunts me. It reminds me I am in a hole. 

Bad luck. 
Good luck. 
Coincidence.
Happenstance. 
Chance. 

These words come back to my memory and I calm down. 

Percentage-wise, statistically, scientifically...one of these hands will pull me all the way up and out. 
So I look up again. 

I think I see something so I yell out to let them know I’m down here.  
It takes a while, but I don’t give up. 

Sure enough a new hand appears. 

Eager, I reach for it. 

But this one is worse than the last. 

Already slick with sweaty deceit. 
I can’t even grip it before my feet find the ground again. 

I dust myself off. I look around. 
Then I look up. 

Next hand.