Well Head by Steve Toase

well

1.
The spring blossomed in the middle of Jenny’s room, unfolding through the carpet, pooling water between the mattress and the single, sun faded, armchair. She thought about drinking the discoloured water, scooping it in two hands and sipping as much as her stomach could bear.

The smell clung to her fingers, stinking of Sunday school damnation and unclean fridges. She left the spring alone, babbling water across the dirt trodden carpet, washing over dropped rizzlas and scorch marks.

2.
Returning, Jenny found the hole bigger, circular. Mattress balanced on the edge as if vomiting into the well. She pulled the bed back and leant it against the wall. Reaching down she felt the walls, stone-lined and slick. Thick with algae that stuck to her fingers like foundation.

The room’s single bulb was too pale, unable to cast light to the water’s surface. With no pebbles she picked up a scratched CD, watching it cascade down the well until it clattered into the flat water below.

Using an old mug tied to a length of electrical flex she dipped into the sulphur water and pulled it up, hand over hand. The stench filled the room, leaching into her clothes and bedding. Clinging to the torn wallpaper. Tipping the water down the sink she watched it swill between unwashed plates.

3.
Pine needles in the tread of Jenny’s boots became dislodged and pierced the carpet. For a moment she smelt forests and untouched snow. She closed the door behind her. The stone of the well head crushed against her chair’s frayed upholstery. Welsh slate like broken teeth lined the roof, capped with a worn stone acorn. From inside came old songs about drowning whose tunes she did not recognise.

With no way to reach her bed she curled up by the door until the frost of the morning slid in through her open window and woke her from a fitful sleep.

4.
Crouched on the landing Jenny listened to her neighbour in the next room swear at someone long dead. Her door was gone. In its place large slabs of gritstone, arched at the top. The masonry blocked the gap completely. At chest height was a stone bowl, a single metal tap venting the breath of dead volcanoes. Beside a verdigris’d button a notice like a stolen road sign told her not to drink the water.

The healing of this town was not for her.

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Well Head by Steve Toase

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