Drip (Short Story)


The trickle of water slides down the numb skin that’s grown colder even as a fever burns white hot beneath. The shivers and uncontrollable shuddering stopped hours ago. Not a good sign.


An ordinary drop of who-knows-where-it-came-from-or-how-clean-it-is water dived with no feelings, but he couldn’t help but think it must have felt glee, to splat into an ignoble shift of nothing-shape and careen down his side.


Funny how you take for granted the things you have on a daily basis when it’s all taken away. Clothes, for example, are worn to help shelter the body but most would only think of them as a matter of necessity of not being nude or a fashion choice that determines their status and worth.

He just wanted some fucking clothes to be warm. Not that clothed, wet and dying is any better than naked, wet and dying. But dammit if he had to choose one over the other. Clothes is the way to go.


Counting is overrated. Even if it’s something you can do unto infinity, the monotonous cadence eventually numbs the thinking mind and zeroes out the whole point of staying occupied. If he had wanted a zen state of nothingness, he would’ve just slept.

He didn’t want to sleep.

He didn’t want o think.

He definitely didn’t fucking want to remember.


Being insanely awake and lucid as his body slowly succumbs to the leeching death was no party but it was better than dreaming shit he had no control to negate. The madness of simple things like water drops, pervasive cold, intensifying feverous heat and bitching was better than giving in. The goal was to give nothing.

Nothing more than his life.


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