When I was 12, alone and stupid and careless, I fell down an abandoned well shaft. It took four days before they found me. Both legs were broken in the fall. Everyone said it was a miracle that I lived, keeping my head above water for so long, hallucinating from the pain.
I have many scars to remind me of that experience. The most noticed are the ones that circle my torso where the ropes they used to pull me up had cut into my skin. At least that's what I tell people when they ask about them. Nobody but me has ever seen how those marks glow green and yellow in the dark.
As I reached my mid-20s I had an increasingly strong feeling that I had to return to the well. My dreams of that place changed from dark and terrible to safe and peaceful. I often awoke aching with needs I couldn't satisfy no matter how much I tried. I also noticed that I was not interested in sex
with