The Well
Content warning: blood, head trauma, invasive procedures. There is a hole in the middle of my forehead. I woke up to see my pillow soaked with blood, right through to the core of its stuffing. A scream built within me while I held the sopping thing up and the fabric sagged with the result of my wound. Blood coyly slid down, gathering in bloated spheres at my elbows. I felt the scream escape through the hole. I stuffed my well with tissue paper, then toilet paper, then cotton balls, then gauze, but nothing could stop the blood from seeping through. It ran down my nose like a mountain river on an ancient course. My eyes watched it run, equally ancient witnesses. Tomorrow I would begin to make my bed with plastic sheets. I went to work with a crimson stain across my chest, my face the worn stone of an old fountain. My managers did not see the frothing whites of my eyes. They did not see me at all. They asked me why I was slow today, and why I would likely be slow tomorrow. “There is
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