Redeemed from the curse of pain and suicide. (Told in the form of fiction.)

Darkness consumes my vision. There is no light down in my pit—my pit of sorrow, turmoil, and despair. My hands are bleeding from trying to scale the slick walls of my prison. The jagged rocks jutting from the walls cut through my skin like butter.

The rain mocks me, filling my pit with water—dark water that rises above my knees.

“Help me!” I scream. Somebody is sobbing. No doubt in another pit, in another place, for another person. It is not me. I am not that weak, that vulnerable. I don’t cry. I don’t weep.

The water is to my waist. Rain beats down in my face.

It is hopeless. The sobbing grows louder.

The water rises to my chest.

“Help me, please!”

The rain beats harder. The water’s too high. It swirls around my nose. Standing on my tiptoes, I gasp for air. I fumble around in the darkness with outreached hands, seeking anything to grasp onto, anything by which I can pull myself up. I find nothing.

The sobbing is my own. Oh God! I admit it. I admit it. The sobbing is my own.

I am gagging on burning liquid searing my nose and throat. Coughing, I inhale more water. I thrash about in my rain-filled pit. The water is over my head and I cannot swim.

I’m going to die and there is none to help me. No one who hears me. No one who cares enough to come to my rescue.

I stop fighting against my pit filled with liquid sorrow. There is no hope, so why do I care if I enter into the abyss? There is no healing balm for my broken soul.

I close my eyes and surrender control.  I find myself begin to float. Higher and higher I rise, until, instead of sinking, I am floating on the surface of my sorrow. Then, I am pulled higher still and slung over shoulders that I recognize but cannot place. I blink as my savior climbs a rope ladder flung down for this purpose. And though I sway from side to side, I hold no fear of falling from his hold.

The rays of sun are shining in my face, rushing heat to my shivering body. Strong hands hold me close, and I snuggle, safe and without fear, on my rescuer’s lap.

And though I am soaked through, the shirt that I cling to is dry. And though my skin has bumps from the chill previously racking my body, the arms that embrace me are smooth and warm.

Then, gently, so gently that I weep tears of which I am no longer ashamed, he pulls me to my feet. Loving hands remove my cold, wet clothes, article by article, with such tenderness that I do not flinch away. I stare at the ground where my bare toes sink into lush green grass.

A soft cloth of fluffy cotton envelopes my body as he rubs me dry. It ruffles through my hair, which he braids down my back.

And though I have yet to glance up—for I cannot bear to look anywhere but at my feet—from the corner of my eye, I see him shrug off the white robe from his body, leaving him only in a white shirt and white cotton drawstring pants.

When he wraps it around my shoulders and pulls my hands through its wide sleeves, I shiver. But I am no longer cold.

He rubs his fingers along the jagged cuts in my palms. Everywhere he touches, my skin mends and heals. No scars remain.

With a step back, he hooks a tender finger under my chin and lifts my face.

I raise my eyes to curls of brown hair, bronze skin that glows with inward fire, and sweet green eyes that I instantly recognize.

I step forward into the embrace of the Lover of my Soul.

I cover his face with my kisses.

I am safe.