Thirst

 

Thirst

 

It’s raining outside the window. Drip, drip, dropping on everything in sight, coating the air with humidity that lingers above the earth, suffocating us. It’s raining outside the window, and I watch as drops slide down the glass, taunting me with their wetness as I realize there’s no more water in the house.

            The faucet is dry. I’ll turn it on every now and again just to prove the fact that I already know. It’s gone. I should do something about that. All this water directed to the ground, to my window, but none on the inside. None where I need it. All this water in places feeding what doesn’t eat, what doesn’t breathe. I need it.

            Something familiar claws at my throat, but I do my best to ignore it. Thirst. A common sensation these days, a common feeling to have scratch through my neck. But it’s bad, right now, and though I know the dry, empty faucets won’t produce a drop, I go to the sink and try anyway.

            Gone.

            I sigh, turning the handle again and again, listening to the noises that should produce water. Should quench thirst.

            “I’m dying,” I hear a voice say, making me turn, secretly making me agitated.

            “And what do you suggest I do about that?”

            My roommate, young and naïve, looks at me with eyes of pleading. “Get water? Or a fan. Or something?”

            “The pipes are dry.”

            “Can’t they be fixed?”

            I shake my head.

            “My God, look outside! It’s raining! How can the pipes be dry?”

            “Because we can’t get outside, Jess. We can’t reach that far.”

            Her eyes are blank, trying to ignore the same feeling I have in my throat. Simultaneously, our eyes dart to the only door. There is no handle. There is no way out.

            “Why…can’t we?” she asks, sounding defeated.

            I shrug. “It’s been this way for years.”

            “But we need water!” she cries, color rushing to her cheeks, hysteria rushing to her brain. “We can’t live without water!”

            “What do you want me to, Jess? Huh? I don’t get what you want me to do!” I shout, at last taking my hand off the faucet handle and walking back to the window. “You know there’s no electricity; you know there’s no running water, so why are you bringing it up?”

            “Because I’m dying.” Her eyes are wide, her mouth a stubborn line.

            “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

            And then there is silence. Jess is fuming, again, frustrated at the fact that there isn’t someone to fix everything. Well, I’m sorry. I wish there was, too.

            “I can’t sleep like this,” she comments.

            “Then become an insomniac.”

            “I already am!” she shouts, leaving one last remark in the sticky, suffocating air as she storms out of the room, letting me be. I sit by the window, by the window pain, and stare outside. I stare hard. I stare harder than I ever have before, because I know we can’t live without water. Not long. So why can’t we get to it? It’s right there. Why can’t we reach it?

            Eventually, night comes, and I’ve chosen to be an insomniac, too. I watch the drops on the glass slide down with sly, happy grins. Don’t look at me that way, I plead. Don’t mock me with those faces, those greedy teeth and squinting eyes. Don’t stare at me with that knowing curiosity, wondering what it’s like to be on the inside, drying out. Thirsting.

            Don’t look at me that way. Don’t watch me as I shrivel up, curling in a ball so tight and so wrinkled it’s impossible to move.  Don’t laugh as we run out of water, as we run out of the thing we need most. Don’t smile at me with that superior attitude, alluding to what we all know we did wrong. Stop staring at me. Stop watching and dropping and quenching the thirst of everything that could survive without you.

             I’m gripping the window pane, gripping it harder than I ever have, and my knuckles are white. My mouth is salivating, coating my tongue with what it wishes it had. But I’m no longer watching outside. I’m watching what’s happening inside.

            The wall paper crinkles, falling forward, curling into a ball so tight I couldn’t move it. The counters fall over and turn to dust, coating the floor with a layer of dryness. The refrigerator collapses in on itself, ripping metal into shreds, leaving food everywhere. And at last, the faucet, the faucet that had once been our solace of water, evaporates.

            I watch, feeling my eyes widen with shock and awe, my jaw dropping several inches. My breath is shallow, controlled, and suddenly I realize that I shouldn’t be surprised at all. It was bound to happen. We were bound to dry out completely. 

            I lean back in my chair, rolling my head to the side, staring out the window.

            And if in the end the world shrivels up as well, I’ll still be staring out the window, imagining rain.

           

Reviews

[inhale]

this was very interesting. i get that they are thirsty but i don't understand why they can't go outside? because there is no handle on the door? but it was a good write i liked how you described the rain drops mocking you.