The fall wasn't the worst part; I can attest because I've reached the bottom. There was a dreadful unknown to it, yes, but it was certainly not the worst.

The worst was the despair. Worst than that was trying to find the strength to stand. And the worstest was bearing the pain one could only understand upon reaching the bottom. Because it was one thing to know and another to understand.

It took me a long while before I gathered enough strength to move even a single muscle. Each movement was a struggle. I lay on the moss-covered ground in a wreath made of rope for at least an hour; my body and mind were in turmoil over what to do. I wasn't suffering from paralysis–I'd given my toes a wiggle and my fingers a waggle–but I wasn't right either. I was experiencing pains I'd never thought possible.

I should have died.

Why didn't I die?

The fall had been maybe fifty feet. I could see the hole in the ceiling from where I lay. They covered it with something, but I could still see its outline. It looked farther than fifty feet. And the more I looked at it, the more I realized I should have broken every bone in my body.

I wasn't a doctor, so I couldn't diagnose, but if I had to guess, I'd say I had broken an arm at most. It was hard to know what else was hurt because everything was sore. The arm, though, I'd heard the snap loud and clear.

Why wasn't I in pain?

After a while, I rolled over, which was good progress. I rolled specifically to the right side. It was the left arm that was broken. As I moved, sharp jolts of pain spread through my body and were accompanied by popping sounds like the ones I would get after waking up in an odd position.

"aaaughhh," I groaned.

Since my arrival in the Labyrinth, I'd been beaten, stabbed, punched, poked, burned, bitten, and after my fall, I could add dropped from the sky to the list. And I wasn't keen on adding any more. Once I could move again, I planned to hightail it back to the tower where Mr. Mosely waited. No more exploring for me.

I glanced down at my arm, which was broken, as I had suspected. The snap happened on my forearm, right above the wrist. A clean break. It made it so my arm was twisted slightly outward and away from my body. Adrenaline must have been doing overtime because I felt nothing besides a dull throb.

I sat up, putting my good arm to use, and shifted my broken arm to my lap. There was no swelling or bruising. That was good. My brother had broken his arm once when I was barely old enough to remember, and my parents had said something about his break not being so bad. I hoped it was the same for me. I could use the good news.

Weary, I sat there staring at my arm, but despite my hopes, my stares didn't do much in the way of healing. On TV and in movies, they always showed the doctor popping an arm back in place with ease, like the snap of a finger–no pun intended. The procedure didn't seem so easy when it was my arm, and there was no doctor. Still, I knew I would have to do it, but that didn't mean it had to happen all at once. I wouldn't pull a band-aid off all at once, much less choose haste on fixing an arm with its upped ante.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I chose instead to survey the area as a distraction. The distraction was a good distraction–it's essential to know where you are–but it was a distraction nonetheless.

The hole I currently resided in was pretty small. Not suffocating, but small. It only went a few feet away from the center in every direction, and there was a squarish shape, like a cube but more curved in the higher-up portions. Also, the walls had tiny holes big enough to stick a finger into–I wasn't in the mood to try. And even if I was in the mood, I wouldn't try because the tiny holes gave me the ick. Cold shivers ran down my spine every time I looked at them. I'm not sure if looking at hundreds of tiny holes was a phobia, but if it was, I had it.

As my eyes continued to survey the bottom of the well, I learned the walls weren't the most interesting portion, not by a long shot. The floor and the things on it were far more interesting.

The soft moss-covered ground was spongy like a wet pillow, but it wasn't at all moist. It was as dry as a sun-soaked desert. When I pressed down on the moss, it sucked me in like quicksand before quickly throwing me back out. I played with it a bit, and like a child with playdough, I couldn't help but burst into giggle fits when it bounced me out. I must've looked insane laughing by myself in a dark hole, broken and bruised. Luckily, no one was there to see.

When I was done with the ground itself, I moved on to the tiny flakes of white cloth covering it. The flakes of cloth were the size of confetti and textured like silk. I assumed it was the same material as I saw the taller snatchers wearing, but it was broken down into pieces. Also, there were ropes and a bone. The very same bone was used to facilitate my current predicament. Pokey and Stabby had tossed it down with me after they cut me from the bone.

I crawled over to where the ropes and bone lay. I would need them after I fixed my arm. Things like a splint and sling weren't available, so I would use what I had. I'd need to break the giant bone into a smaller piece and then shorten the rope, but those tasks would come after.

No longer able to delay the inevitable, I sat criss-cross applesauce and put my arm back into my lap.

"A quick pain, and thats that. Honestly, it probably won't hurt at all. I'm not scared. Of course, I'm not sacred," I babbered into the void. I didn't believe my words, but they were nice to say aloud. "Okay, Bart. On go."

I tucked my elbow into the crevice of my lap, wincing pain as I did so, and grabbed hold of my wrist close to my hand. There was a slight hint of red at the spot where the fracture was present. And there was swelling. I didn't know what to make of it.

I steadied my breath and prepared to start my count but stopped short so I could pull the rope close. I stuck one end of the rope in my mouth and bit down hard. The hair bristles on the rope were reminiscent of the ones from the wax. I'd grown used to the uncomfortable feeling.

With that settled, I counted down in my head and on go, I twisted my arm back straight. The howl I let out could pierce eardrums; as expected, it hurt. A lot. I closed my eyes in defiance as if that would lower the pain, but it didn't. The pain threshold didn't decrease just because I couldn't see it.

I cursed a lot until I regained the good sense to check on the outcome, which turned out to be pretty okay. My arm was straight. I wasn't hundred percent certain if it was perfectly aligned, but I wasn't going to try it again and risk making it worse. My eyes told me my arm was straight, so I thought it best to trust them.

The bone and rope were the next part of the plan. I broke the bone by slamming into the wall repeatedly–I had to pause many times due to exhaustion. Once they were separated into smaller pieces, I used the rope to tie the two smallest fragments of the giant bone to my arm like a splint. It was makeshift, but it kept my arm moving willy-nilly.

"What to do now...," I muttered.

There wasn't anything inside the pit beside the holes and shredded clothes. I could try to climb out. Fifty-odd feet wasn't too far. And there were a lot of rocky holds to utilize.

I ultimately decided against it--at least for the moment. One of my arms was broken, and the snatchers would likely be waiting for me. I had a better chance of catching the snatchers by surprise if I waited a little while longer. Even snatchers have to go to sleep, don't they?