The woods are chilly and there is just enough dying light to see an outline of the trees. I know where I’m going. My steps are soft on the cool path. Alone, I walk towards the pit in the middle of the clearing.

The moon shines through thick night clouds and I stand before the gaping hole in the ground, not knowing how far down it goes this time. I descend, and it doesn’t matter. The walls are slick mud and I sink my fingers into them. It’s not a straight shot down, and I circle the walls with my hands and feet. Dirt smears over the bruises on my legs and the light pink dress I had tried to wear earlier that day is covered in the stains of the ground. Hair falls in my face and I swipe it away with a dirty hand, and my cheek becomes smeared with the earth.

My spiral downward is marked with streaked fingerprints on the walls and suddenly a foot hits the bottom. My hands slide wearily off the walls and I lie on the floor of the pit. The ground seeps into my neck and my hair, what once was a dress; and I look up at the sky and watch the moon disappear, leaving me in the darkness. As if I belong there, I close my eyes, comforted in the fact that there is a bottom to the pit, and I appear to have hit it.

Luciana, 25