Deep down, I'm just scared that I'll one day be old with a cigarette in my hand, and not a soul to light me up.
And glaring death into bitter night, I left my heart on the stone altar, a peace offering to shadowy figures clothed in tears and linen, that they may receive it and be pleased.
I ran, I flew down the mountain side, wind in my ears and blood on my hands, hysterical laughter ringing in the hollows of my skull.
At the foot of the mountain, centered in the valley, a well stood, stoney eyed and heartless (the well was me and I was the well) waiting for the rushing noise to hush and the shadow gods to be quieted by the pumping of a deadened heart.
My red tinged eyes gazed forward, downward, into the ever sloping well, and all was quiet. The blood dripped scarlet pearls from my hollowed chest, and after an eternity the splash echoed from the walls of the cold well.
The sound reverberated through air cold as ice, anchoring me in its grip, soft as a kiss. I fell.
I let the echo pull me into a well's unbroken water, eyelids forced open over empty sockets, wind burping into my cheeks, forcing me into an unforgiving smile.