The Well

The man goes outside the well to fill up his bucket.

He looks in the filthy black water,

the moon giving off a glimmer of life in an otherwise cesspool.

He reaches in with the bucket and then drops it in the water

as a hand covered in puss and bacteria pulls him in.

Water fills his lungs and nostrils,

choking on the smell reminiscent of bleach and ammonia.

A voice deep and abrasive, like someone is walking on sandpaper on top of gravel says,

“You remember this, don’t ya golden boy?”

The water in the well turns into blood.

The plasma in his lungs tastes of blood and steel.

He’s choking on the stench of those forgotten.

Rotten teeth, black like the recesses of his mind, floats around.

He claws at the stone for traction,

hoping to escape this wretched nightmare.

But his finger nails break off and join the tango of blood and teeth.

He climbs back out and with exposed fingers and rolls out of the well.

He coughs out the blood, rolls over, and catches his breath.

On his back, gazing into the starless night, he whispers,

“I remember.”