He stared upward, neck craning at the mocking pinprick of light above. The pit seemed to stretch forever, its walls slick with moisture and his own blood. Jagged rocks jutted out like broken teeth, each one a reminder of his failed attempts to climb out. The light above danced like a cruel star, so close yet eternally out of reach.

His hands, once soft from years behind desks, were now raw meat. Each throb echoed his heartbeat, the pain finally piercing through his fading adrenaline. He curled into himself, the cold seeping through his clothes, and let exhaustion claim him.

Dreams came in fragments - graduation cap flying high, pristine degree in hand, hope burning bright. Reality had been different. The streets of Lagos became his daily battlefield, each "we'll call you back" cutting deeper than the last. He'd done everything right - top grades, clean record, endless applications. Yet here he was, another faceless graduate drowning in a sea of desperation.

The first bottle was an accident. The second was a choice. The third became necessity. Each amber glass promised warmth, each burning sip whispered sweet lies of comfort. The bottles became his companions, then his masters. Their siren song grew louder with each passing night.

"Just one more," they'd whisper. “Remember how good it feels to forget?”

He'd wake in gutters, hours or days lost to the void. Each "never again" grew weaker, until the words lost all meaning. The bottom of each bottle no longer offered escape - it had become its own pit, deeper and darker than any physical chasm.

Time blurred. The pit and the bottle became one. Each attempt at sobriety sent him crashing back, body broken against the rocks of his addiction. The light above grew dimmer with each fall.

Then, in the darkness, something broke. Pride crumbled, and a foreign word escaped his bloodied lips.

“Help.”

It came out as a whisper, then grew stronger.

“HELP!”

The word echoed against the walls, unfamiliar yet liberating. His vision dimmed, darkness creeping in like spilled ink. As consciousness faded, a voice cut through - warm, human, real.

“Don't give up, brother. There's hope for you yet.”

A hand reached down into his darkness. It wasn't salvation, not yet. But it was a beginning. With trembling fingers, he reached back.

Sometimes, he would later realize, the greatest strength lies not in standing alone, but in having the courage to grasp an offered hand.