Days, weeks, months, years blur together in irrelevancy. Only one thing matters— the weight is held. It is said that, in the recesses of the pit, are treasures priceless, fragile, and irreplaceable: things of crystal, glass, and other stuff less sturdy and more precious. Worth protecting, worth the cost.
Then, one day, his grip slips.
No one cause that he can think of, but there's really no time to think at all. The weight is falling, falling; the coil unfurls with dizzying speed. He tries, valiantly, to grasp at the wildly whipping cord, but the friction instantly burns his hands bloody and raw. Too fast, too fast. With a combination of frantic concentration and frozen shock, he stares at the swiftly vanishing coil. Futility and inevitability become living and solid. His vision and his mind narrow to a single, fatalistic pinpoint, an oddly detached wondering:
When it finally hits, what will the crash sound like?