In The Well

My father cinched the rope, a noose around my waist, and lowered me into the darkness. I could taste my fear. It tasted first of dark, then earth, then rot. I swung and struck my head and at that moment got another then: then blood, which spiked my mouth with iron. Hand over hand, my father dropped me from then to then: then water. Then wet fur, which I hugged to my chest. I shouted. Daddy hauled the wet rope. I gagged, and pressed my neighbor's missing dog against me. I held its death and rose up to my father. Then light. Then hands. Then breath.