Beneath the Well
Nearly nineteen years and she had remained as tall and straight as an old, thick Redwood sequoia reaching for the skies. Through the windiest storms and coldest winters Alaska had remained her serious, poised self. Always keeping her chin high even when the load on her shoulders piled up one by one. No matter the pain, she would hold strong.
But humans were natural liars; that was why you couldn’t trust anyone. Sometimes you couldn’t even trust yourself. People always had their reasons for the lies, but no matter how big or small it still wasn’t the truth.
Calmly, coolly, wordlessly, she stepped into the dormitories. The mud had dried by now, allowing her to bend down and brush off bits of dirt before fully stepping into the hallway toward her own room. It was a long walk. It felt a lot like the eternal corridor from when she had temporarily lost her memories—and even she knit her brows at times because her brain was not quite full, some things here and there were still missing—but this time fear and panic didn’t wrap around her heart. She kept walking steadily, the endless, painful walk. Muddy hands grasped the door handle and she vaguely wondered if she should invest in a pair of gloves before finally stepping inside.
Shoulders were still erect when she reached up to comb a set of fingers through her hair, picking out sizeable clumps of dirt before her arms stopped midair like she was an android out of battery. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her eyes slid shut, and the slow tears slid down her cheeks. Gradual and silent at first, but then she knelt down with hands covered over her face. Alaska’s entire frame shook like leaves as she cried. Suddenly she wasn’t the giant, sprawling tree anymore. She was still just a young sapling trying to reach for the sun and warmth. She was grasping for care and confidence and happiness and affection—something intangible. She was reaching for weakness because even the biggest trees fall down someday, and if the tree called out would anybody hear it?
But she had never learned how to cry and scream. She had learned to push aside childish dreams for cold reality, no matter how deep the icy burns cut into her skin. She had learned to bury the weakness inside, to let it pile up one by one and pretend they never existed in the first place, to make sure no one ever saw the miniscule fissures building on her figure. She was a dam waiting to crack.
Nineteen years and three months later, everything came rushing out. She had plastered on temporary band aids, but they were just that—temporary. They were only just enough to get her back to her room for some privacy, but not even the thin walls could mask her screeching wails.
I want to go home.
She hung her head between her legs.
I want to see Kira.
Nails dug into her skull.
I want to not worry about my grades.
Knees fell to the ground.
I want to stop feeling like a failure.
Her forehead pressed into the cold floor.
I want to stop acting so tough.
Teardrops fell.
I want someone to turn back the time.
Could someone rewind the clock just this once? Could someone let her relive the pure, naïve years of her young childhood before the monsters beneath the bed went bump in the night? Could she start over from day zero?
“I want a do over.” A shaky, teary voice. Trembling fingers wiped away the tears staining her face, but they kept flowing.
Hun, nobody gets do overs. Do overs don’t exist. The tears flowed even more as she collapsed to her side and rolled onto her back. A pale pink tongue poked out, licking the salty drops as she lifted a hand toward the ceiling. She imagined the ceiling to be decorated with pictures, like the way her old room had been painted (courtesy of herself). Alaska reached for an invisible rose.
“Sleeping Beauty’s so lucky. She can sleep for a hundred years until all her problems are solved.” As long as Alaska thought of the Disney version, at least.
Her mind was clear, but she still felt the water trickling down her face. A never ending well. Her forehead crinkled. How did that one quote go again? People’s hearts were like wells. Nobody knew what was at the bottom, and the only thing people could do was imagine by whatever comes floating to the surface once in a while. But that was how she liked it. All people ever saw on the surface was her rough exterior—the way she swore and the way her temper seemed to flare so easily and the way she still sometimes kept her cool and the way she was so cynical. But hiding in the well’s waters was the burning desire to let go, to be—for a moment—like the foolish, emotional, breakable humans she had read so much about in books.
The tears still fell as she lay asleep on the floor, muddy clothes and all.
