One of my fondest memories from our drives to the farm house were the pitstops. We would often stop at gas stations. Back then they weren't as hygienic as today. But I unconditionally loved the corndogs they sold. My eyes would open wide whenever we stopped at a gas station because I knew I was going to chow down on some very delicious corndogs.
It was either watching the clouds pass by as we drove or the corndogs. I didn't have much to appreciate other than that. The constant back and forth passive aggressiveness inside the car was always way too much for me to handle. I preferred sleeping through it all.
It amazes me how we never really bother anyone sleeping. Unless for dire situations I have never seen anyone bother a sleeping person. There were very few times that we reached our farmhouse awake. Most of the times I would wake up the next day in my bed and in my jammies.
I didn't receive similar attention when I was down by myself in the well. Miraculously I survived the fall. I broke my tibia bone and that was the end of it. I felt more cold than hurt. I felt more alone than scared.
Looking back I was a little unempathetic about the entire situation. The fear of annoying the people in the house was far greater than care for my own health. I sat there at the dry pit my the water path shivering and freezing. But I didn't make a noise.
I could not put myself in a situation where they would be burdened by my actions. I could not imagine how loud and uneasy would everyone get. In my head it was much better if I sat there in the freezing cold surrounded by darkness.
It felt like hours, but only minutes had passed. One of my cousins stumbled upon the well with the girl inside. He knew what it was like living in my family. But there was no running from the truth. My arm was in a cast, but with everything that happened at home I wished the girl remained in the well and was forgotten.
