When I was 13, I was still one of those hyperactive kids with far too little common sense to tell bravery from stupidity. I was sent to summer camp, and because I was easily bored, I decided to skip activities for one day and laze around in the dorms. Now, the boys dorm was about 5 floors high, with a giant spiral-like (rectangular) staircase that had railings without stopguards at the end, and it was pretty much a boys thing to slide down the stairs floor by floor, and and fly off the rails of the last floor toward and out the dorm doors.

Bored little me decided I would try sliding down the stairs - all five floors without getting off the rails even once. I made it to the third floor before I lost my balance, and slipped down the wrong side of the railing - I caught myself on the handles and hung on for dear life. Back then, my arms were weak spaghetti, I couldn't even do a pull up, let alone cliff climb myself back over the railing. My palms sweated like a cold drink left in the sun for too long.

I yelled out for help. Desperation filled my voice. Nobody came. I yelled again, my tear ducts stung as I struggled with the realization that I might actually die. Nobody came. My arms grew weaker and weaker by the second, my legs felt paralyzed, my entire spine felt frozen. Death was knocking at my door, his scythe ready to slice my arms off. And still, no one came.

I hung on for an eternity, the echoes of my screams mercilessly tormented me as my arms eventually gave out. I could no longer hang on. There was nothing left for me to do but give up. My brain had finally come to accepting that I would die then and there, and I could do nothing about it. My chest felt like it would pierce from the overwhelming grief for my young self, tears started forming and I choked on every breath I took, every breath that could turn out to be my last.

Then I felt my legs again. They were no longer shaking with fear, but with the excitement that I may have actually found a way to escape. In my sorrow, I had turned my head downwards to see how far it would take for me to hit the ground, when I saw a vending machine at the bottom of the stairwell - but it was on the opposite side. My brain immediately snapped back into reality and seared my nerves into action - if I could kick myself across the stairwell, I could land on the vending machines and it would only be about 2 floors worth of drop - far more likely to be survivable.

Winding up every last drop of new-found strength, I tightened my grip on the railings before planting my feet against the wall as well, then pushed as hard as I could, making the first - and very possibly last true leap of faith in my life. My body was propelled into the air, soaring across the stairwell hall. The air rushing across my skin told me I was flying with the greatest might I ever would muster. A primal roar formed in my throat, a shout for sweet, sweet life and the survival of my body.

It was cut short as my chest slammed into the edge of the Coca Cola machine, rocking it backwards. The machine slammed into the wall behind it, then rocked forwards, throwing me onto the ground with a sick thud. It rocked back and forth gently as I sat on the ground in a puzzled mist, the violent shock of my teenage body slamming into it slowly dissipating.

I must have sat on the floor for an entire minute without moving, my body slowly recovering motor functions and the adrenaline washing away. I moved my fingers. Functional. My legs and toes. Also functional. I slowly moved every joint in my body, checking to see if anything was missing or broken, checking to see if a sharp pain would suddenly shoot across my being. Nothing. I had escaped what seemed like (to my young self) certain death, or at least severely broken legs.

When I finished checking my body, almost in an absentminded haze, my emotions finally caught up with my brain. The joy of being alive, the excitement of making the jump (not really), the grief and pain of almost losing my life (again, not really). I screamed at the top of my lungs, tears gushing across my cheeks. I had never felt more raw emotion than at that moment, taking in every facet of my being and the overwhelming relief at being alive. I bawled for what seemed like minutes, until I could no longer utter even a whisper from my hoarse voice, and just like that, I picked myself up off the ground, stumbled into the boys room and washed my face. I then headed out into the blinding sun and joined the archery class in the area two buildings away.

I have never since done any physical stunts that would even remotely put me in danger, including running down stairs 2 steps or more at a time or even just crossing a busy road. I don't skateboard, rollerblade, skate or even hoverboard. I work out at a gym and learn Muay Thai, but have refused to even friendly spar with other students, in case one of us snaps and lands an unfortunate blow. Some people call me a coward, but I prefer to think of myself as preserving the life I came to save by accident.

tl;dr: I was a young idiot and a Coca Cola machine saved my life by breaking my fall.