Down the Well, a Tale to Tell
Down the well, where shadows sleep,
A secret lies, buried deep
In the darkness, where echoes play,
Your mask may slip away
Past the worms and stones so cold,
Whispers and dreams are told
Into the abyss, we fell,
All thatâs left, a tale to tell
- Author unknown
Pitch black darkness. Hard stone surfaces on all sides. A perfect cube. Stale, scentless air. Not warm nor cold. Complete silence. Void and empty.Â
That was the nature of every cell inside of this prison and my reality for the next twenty years.Â
They called it The Wellâa dark chasm that went down miles into the earth. The architects alone knew how deep it went, but it was clear that its population grew with each passing year as the world above crumbled.
Constant darkness with no human contact, The Well did not exist to rehabilitate. The Well was a rug, under which you brush the dirt and detritus you have no stomach to get rid of. We are out of sight and out of mind.Â
In this abyss, time ceased to exist. Sunlight never penetrated its depths and clocks were absent. The only semblance of a routine was the irregular arrival of mealsâa thick, flavorless slurry passed through an inch-tall opening in the base of one of the walls. It provided the bare minimum nutrients for survival and little else.Â
Early on, I thrashed and screamed, unaware if anyone could hear me amidst the silence. But as days turned into months, my voice grew hoarse. You can only shout into the void for so long. Either my voice left me or my ears had become deaf to the sound of my screams.Â
Pain soon became my only companion. I clawed at my own flesh, desperate for any sensation to interrupt the monotony. But the wounds only added to my torment, festering and itching incessantly.
Gradually, my mind fragmented and I lost all sense of self. In The Well, I ceased to be human, existing only as a fleeting consciousness, ambling through the aether.
Then, a whisper broke the silence, soft and elusive like a passing breeze. It took form into wordsâa question that penetrated the solitude:
For a moment, I had forgotten how to speak. It had been so long since words formed on my tongue. I could only let out a raspy, âhahh...â
The voice cackled, ancient and crackling with age, âFinally... You found the sweet spot.â
My tongue froze again. The voice continued, âIt takes a second. The words will come back.â
I tried to form a question, but all that came out was babble.
As if reading my mind, the voice responded, âYes, Iâm real. And no, Iâm not god. Iâm just your neighbor.â
I started to remember what my lips felt like as I slowly formed a word, âHow?â
âYeah, I bet youâre confused. This must be the first thing youâve heard in a long time. Just remember the spot youâre in. Thatâs the only place you can hear anything.â
âY-You... heard... me?â
The voice answered, âA few times. A scream here and there. More than a few whimpers. I called for you, but you never heard it. Until now.â
âHow la...lon...â I forgot how to make the âGâ sound.Â
ââHow long?â Iâve got no clue, kid. Iâm just like you. Got no sense of time or place. Could be a year. Could be a century.â The voice gave a huff of amusement, âItâs funny, isnât it? The clock used to dictate our entire lives. Now itâs meaningless, like weâre floating on an eternal ocean of nothingnessâÂ
When I heard those words, I felt a surge of emotion swell up within me. Tears spilled out my eyes and down my cheeks. Sensations that had been lost to me for so long. Finally, somebody that understood me.Â
The voice became tender, âItâs a lot to take in. I remember how I felt when I met my first neighbor. Take your time. Weâve got plenty of it.â
Over time, our conversations revealed that each unit had two âsweet spotsâ that allowed communication between neighbors on the left and right. With the wall where food arrived as my reference point, I identified the voice I had been speaking to as my right neighbor.Â
I attempted to reach out to my left, but the voice warned me it would be in vain. âThereâs nobody there,â they explained. âThe person before you told me the cell to his left had been empty for some time.â
I felt a tinge of disappointment, which I quickly suppressed. I should be relieved to have a neighbor at all. I inquired about the previous inhabitant of my unit, âYou two were close?â
The voice laughed, âHe was a right bastard. Always took things personally. Kept trying to pick a fight.â After a pause they went on, âBut yeah, we were close. Had to be.âÂ
âWhat did you talk about?â
I let out a chuckle, which surprised me. It had been a long time since I felt that sensation in my cheeks.Â
My neighbor continued, âNo, through all of his bullshit, Iâm thankful for the one thing he could give me.â
âStories?â I repeated. That concerned me. I wasnât much of a storyteller and I was desperate to not disappoint my one respite from this eternal hell.Â
âYeah. He could weave a tale, Iâll give him that. Never ran out of them either.Â
âHe must have lived an interesting life,â I said with a hint of jealousy.Â
âItâs not like that. The stories about your own life, they run out pretty quick. The really interesting ones are the stories about the others that used to live here.â
âThink about it. For centuries, thousands have come through The Well. Each one has stories that they tell to their neighbor. If itâs any good, they pass it along to their other neighbor. Then their neighbor. And on and on it goes.â
âThen the stories he told you... theyâre true?â
The voice chuckled, âWell, maybe not âtrue,â but down here, where you have nothing, they sure feel real.âÂ
I started to understand what he was meant. In this prison, the smallest deviations from the norm felt like monolithic events. Even this stranger, who I had only just met, was all of a sudden the most important thing in my life.
This small, oppressive darkness defined our entire reality. Hearing the story of anotherâs life would be like a brush of paint spreading across a black canvas.Â
Even though our minds would eventually fracture, the stories would pass on in hushed tones from one prisoner to the next. The Well was more than just a prison. It was a vessel for the memories of those that lived there.Â
Feeling the weight of my request, I asked in a soft voice, âCould you tell me a story?âÂ
With that, my neighbor began a tale of a world far away.Â
