For days, he’d been looking at the light. The ever distant light. But it never got any closer. It always stayed in the same place; high above, in the distance.

He had been content. Food was present; and there was a spring where water could be found. He sustained. In the beginning, he would fight to get to the top. His fingers would bloody as he reached into the rocks. But the slime on the walls would always win, and he’d fall back down to the bottom, where a stagnant pool of water lay. After awhile, he forgot his family, his wife, his life: he grew content.

He lived off what morsels of food he could, which was fairly ample; he drank what little water tricked from a spring. It was easy to sit at the bottom of the well. He couldn’t fall, and he couldn’t get hurt.

—

One morning, the steamy heat was replaced with a cool breeze. It only meant one thing: the season was changing. He decided to leave.

He spent the morning gathering his belongings, which weren’t much. A few crackers; some water; and some clay from the ground, which he found he could eat without a problem.

But before he left, he had to find Rosie.

Rosie was a rat. Often, people and rats don’t get along; its as if God did not want the two to enjoy each others company. But loneliness will do strange things to man; and in the darkness of The Well, with The Light far above, Rosie became a friend.

He ate rats; nine to be exact. But he never ate Rosie; she crept up to him while he was sleeping one night, and he woke up with her asleep next to him. And his first thought was “Free Meal.” But as he went to crush her skull, he found himself longing for a friend. She was still asleep. He let her sleep; and later, when she woke up, she didn’t leave.

Friendship comes from strange places.

And so as he packed up his belongings, he knew he had to find Rosie, to say goodbye. He crawled through puddles searching; and as usual, she was in her corner.

“Hey Rosie, how’s it going?” For a few moments they spoke, as only a human and animal who are deep friends can. And giving her a rub on the head, he turned and left.

—

And so he stood at the bottom of the well, looking up. Above him was the light. And again, for just a moment, he felt the shiver a breeze, even at this low level. He stuffed what he could into his pockets; and looking upward, he started for the light.

The first time he made it fifteen feet; his fingers gave out on a slick stone, and he fell down. In the cold and darkness he waited for another ten minutes, and he started again. And again he fell. And this went on. Until several hours later, hurt and tired, he slept on the ground.

—

Sometime later he woke. He felt Rosie against his side. He went back to sleep.

—

In his dream, he was sitting in a polished kitchen. A bowl of chips lay on the table in front of him. Children’s laughter rang out from upstairs. And directly in front of him, lay a TV.

It was Sunday. October. There were leaves to be raked, but that didn’t matter at the moment: on the screen in front of him, the Green Bay Packers were playing the Minnesota Vikings. The quarter was the fourth; there was 2:13 left to play. And with a three point lead, the Vikings were leading the ball up the field. They had no timeouts; all they had was the two minute warning.

As the clock ticked down, it hit 2:00, and the TV went to commercials.

Standing up, the man dressed in jeans and a faded t-shirt walked to the fridge. He grabbed a beer, and a new jar of salsa; he had finished the first jar. He walked back to the counter, to see if his Packers could pull it off.

The game came back from commercials.

On the first play from scrimmage, Minnesota’s QB launched a ball deep in the air. No conservative play here. And down the field, the cornerback, playing in a man scheme, tripped over his own feet.

A chip was dropped on the floor. Beer spilled. Down the field, the wide receiver arched out his hands, and with the softness of a feather, the ball dropped into his hands. The free safety was fast, but not fast enough; he wasn’t catching a receiver from ten yards back. Down the field he ran, and to the dismay of Green Bay fans everywhere, he pranced into the end zone.

Just like that, it was 20-10, Minnesota, 1:44 remaining.

21-10, Minnesota, 1:42 remaining.

Commercials.

At the kitchen table, the man’s head bowed. The beer was cleaned; the chip was picked up. The game came back; with a heavy heart, he looked towards the TV.

Minnesota kicked off; to his amazement, they kicked it in the air, to the return man. And to his sheer amazement, the ball was returned. To the forty. Fifty. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Dear God. Ten. Touchdown.

The kitchen rang out with the yells of a grown man’s happiness.

Down by three, with 1:13 left. Onside kick time.

Lined up for the kick, his doubts returned. The kick took one of those perfect 15 foot bounces; it landed twelve yards deep, hit the hand of a Viking, and fell into the arms of a Packer.

0:53 remaining.

21-17, Minnesota.

With one timeout left, it was run up the middle on the first play. Very conservative play. Timeout burned.

On second down, with 0:46 remaining, the ball flew down the field to the endzone. And it was caught.

TOUCHDOWN!

The Pack kicked off, but the Viks couldn’t do anything. They ran two desperate plays that went nowhere. The Pack won a good one.

With a smile on his face, the man in the kitchen finished his beer. Later that night, he helped his kids rake the leaves. And later still he had sex with his life. And on a quiet Sunday night, he finally fell asleep.

Outside, the leaves still remaining in the trees rattled in the wind.

—

In his sleep, he twitched. Rosie looked at him with the curious eye of a rat. A smile came across his face. She scurried away, but later she wandered back.

—

The blood under his fingertips was pooling up. His hands were mangled. Looking up, he still could see the light. And every so often, he could still feel a breeze. The seasons were changing without him.

Halfway through the day, he gave up. He sat in the mud next to the stagnant pool. He didn’t look in the reflection; he didn’t want to see. He ate some clay, and a worm from the ground. As he looked up, the light was fading.

Again, he fell asleep.

—

He dreamt, but couldn’t remember his dreams.

—

Waking up, he looked to the sky. He didn’t climb that day; he rested his hands.

—

That night, he dreamt that he was in a field. He was young; his friends from the past were there. Some were now dead; some where simply somewhere else, raising familys and holding jobs. But in his dream; they were all there.

They played football. And at some point, as dreams often do, it became something else. But the next morning, lying in the mud, he remembered the dream.

He remembered the touch of a football. He remembered life.

—

He began climbing. It hurt; it hurt so bad. His fingers wouldn’t stop bleeding. He head and stomach ached. But he thought about his kids; he thought about his wife; and he thought about his life. He slipped at around 35 feet; he fell, and on landing he cracked his shoulder. He could hear it. The pain was red. Purple dots danced in front of his eyes. He spit blood. He cried.

Rosie watched from a corner, as the strange man screamed in pain and anguish. She retreated, but later in the night, as the man’s heavy breaths became rythmic with sleep, she crept back out, and nestled beside him.

—

In his dream, he lay awake on a Sunday morning. His wife lay next to him. She was beautiful. She slipped out of bed, and into the bathroom.

He grabbed the remote, and watched TV. It was NFL Countdown. He smiled.

His wife came out of the bathroom, and turned off the TV, annoyed. She climbed back into bed.

Life was good.

—

His shoulder was eating him; eating his mind, his will to live. He couldn’t think; his shoulder did his thinking for him. All it thought was pain. Pain.

Looking up from the ground, he saw the light.

—

“Rosie.”

He couldn’t find Rosie. He needed her. Where the Hell was she?

“Rosie, ROSIE GODAMMIT WHERE ARE YOU!!!???”

His voice echoed back him. “SHUT UP!!!!! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!”

The echoes didn’t shut up; they screamed back at him. In the darkness, he cried.

From a distance, Rosie watched. But she didn’t come out of her hole; she retreated.

—

Waking up from a dream, he couldn’t see the light; only darkness. He went back to sleep.

—

In his dream, he was playing catch with his son. He didn’t want to wake up.

—

He woke up. He vomited. He cried.

“Rosie? Rosie, where the fuck are you??”

Rosie crept out from her hole; the man scared her, but she felt he needed her.

“ROSIE, ROSIE, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU????”

Afraid, Rosie crept away. But when he fell asleep, she came back out.

—

The days grew shorter. The light in the well grew darker.

—

One day, in a previous life, he had been at Lambeau Field with his father. It was twenty degrees; he drank a hot cocoa and ate two hotdogs; his dad paid him two bucks, since he had bet him he couldn’t eat both.

Many years later, he took his own song to a game. They had watched a receiver do the Lambeau Leap; they had eaten sausage; they had enjoyed the game.

—

He woke up with shit caked in his eyes; looking up, he could barely see light. It was fading.

His breath was ragged. He was dizzy. He needed water.

Against his cheek, he felt something warm. Something living.

“Rosie.”

His voice was barely audible, hardly human. But she stayed. He felt the warmth of a living thing.

—

In his dream, the Packers came back from a 14 point deficit to win the game.

—

Waking up, he felt strength. He didn’t know from where, but he felt it. He crept to the spring; it took him quite some time. He drank.

He ate some clay, and a bug.

He hunched against the wall; the shoulder ached, but not as badly as before.

Looking up, he saw the light; and ever more often, he felt a cool breeze.

—

He waited four days. He ate. He thought. He sat. He gathered strength.

—

On the fifth day, he climbed. It hurt; it hurt so bad. He bled. But halfway up, he saw the light, and it was so bright. And he smelled the breeze. And he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let go.

—

He hung on. For as long as he could, he hung on. He didn’t know how far he had, but he knew he was close. He could feel it. He hung on; for dear life, he hung on. And at some point, when he felt he could hang on no more, he reached.

And he reached an edge. It felt different than the other stones; it felt cold with the Fall. It was out of the well.

He hung on.

He pulled.

Pulled.

The sunshine watched from above as he rolled onto the grass.

—

In his dream, he was walking at the bottom of a well. There was a stagnant pool of water; the smell of shit was everywhere. Looking up, there was light to be seen.

In the darkness, a rat scurried forwared.

“Rosie?”

Rosie came out of the darkness. And one last time, two friends spoke.

—

In the hospital room, admist the family and friends, a TV played the Packers game in the corner.

—