Stories of Shattered Shadows

Jump

Here it lies, right at my feet. And found after one of the most difficult treks to be had, here it is. What had once been tidy and formal stones, cut neatly to help aide in their orderly appearance is now cracked and crumbling, a desperate scramble to hold together the lip of it all. But here it is. And gleaming green sludge crowds along every crevice and corner that's been untouched. But here it is. And the frame, with its joke of a little roof and much too large bucket, must have been torn off through battery of age, or perhaps the sudden distaste of its waters. But, still standing, here it is.

The well.

And so I peer to the waters–yes, a well in such condition will still be teemed with its waters, even if it's been deemed as useless. They're an inky black.

And I think that it would draw me in like some sort of unrelenting evil force of some sort. Whispering secrets that could only be seen below the depths. Hissing promises of powers and knowledge and glory and anything I could ever want. Calling with the overwhelming appeal something more, something other than the bore of the repetition of life, and sucking every ounce of soul that remains below the skin.

But none of those things happen. The waters, so black I could never hope to see the  bottom, are still and silent, offering nothing below its dark veil. Unable to offer anything...Because–a shiver crawls up my back before I could finish the thought, and I turn my head to that form, waiting, that red fur glowing like fire against the sun.

It's her. And I don't know what I had expected from her–of course she had followed. Of course she had.

"It was pointless to make this journey." She's perched on a rock, those dainty paws pressed together to mimic the stance of an eagle; a higher voice. "It has been forgotten by those who ever would have cared–"

Yes, forgotten by everyone that should ever care, including me. I have forgotten anything that lays below the black surface, unmoving of this old, crumbling well.

"Then why are you here? If not to drown yourself in your regrets to prevent your memory from ever slipping, then why have you come here?"

And that's the question. Why am I here? Why should I even be here? And the answer–I realize–is simple, as I shift my gaze back to the murk of the waters, where chaos lays beneath the oil black depths. Unmoving, but still there. Still there, alive and swimming right below the surface, and waiting. Waiting for me to turn and walk away, waiting for me to do as they all say because that's always been the right way. And they said that the best thing to do is forget as everyone else does so you can erase your face and rewrite your story, but now I've done that, and I can't see my reflection anymore.

"Is that why you're here? To remember?" Her voice comes again, much softer now, and I believe she's found a better understanding.

And she's right, of course. I'm not afraid to forget, I've already done that and stored all of my regrets and all of my lies and all of my mistakes so that they could all one day collapse and deteriorate out of existence. But sometimes that isn't the best method to take another step forward. And sometimes the only way to reach the top of the cliff is to jump. Jump right into the black of the madness and let it swallow up my body.

"Do it."

And I climb the the lip, crumbling rocks slipping under my weight, so it's more of a scramble. But I do it, and I stare down into the swirling black depths of all of my regrets, and I realize that waters have never been still at all but have been pretending. Pretending like they never happened, never were there in the first place. I like to think of it as a mosquito, taking what never belonged to it and the buzzing off fat and happy and feigning innocence as though it did nothing. But no one ever falls for its tricks. No one but itself, I guess.

And this is the part when I jump, and I jump. And for the briefest second, with the lip of the well and the ground disconnected from my feet and the air hovering with me as though I'm one with its body, I feel the inclination to spread out my arms and fly and become a bird and never hit the madness, but I don't, and the swirling black chaos hits me right in the face and the darkness wraps its arms around me.

And
         I
              Jumped.