Ink runs down the pages;
Words spilling into each other.
The black liquid stains my fingertips.

A wishing well full of shining gold.
Looking deep into the well,
A small child of about six years
Stands on her toes
Atop a little stepping stool.
She raises her arm,
Holding her hand above
The gleaming water below.
Running her little fingers
Along the rough metal of the coin
She holds between her finger.
Closing her eyes,
She lets the coin drop,
And she makes a wish.
A vital wish for her family.
A glistening tear slides down her rosy cheek,
As she steps down
And runs back up
To the little house on the prairie,
Where her family of nine awaits her,
Sitting at an empty table,
With empty plates,
Empty glasses,
Empty stomachs.
But full hopes
For their dear little daughter,
Lovely sister,
Darling granddaughter.

Sheets of paper everywhere,
As I awaken from the story
That pulled me in.
The tragic story of a little girl,
Who saved the lives of her family,
By sacrificing her own.
Here I sit,
Recording these stories.
These tales are true.
My inky pen
Running across the pages.
Scribbling tales of the past.
My past.
Writing down my story.
The story of how I died.