Ghostly Grind

Disturbing the Dead Weight

Later that night, thirst cranked down on my throat like a damn parasite, chewing up whatever was left of my patience. I'd been lying on the couch all evening, looking like a corpse at a crime scene. Hydration? Forget it. I was too exhausted from doing nothing of any real importance to care about drinking a glass of water.

But now, lying in bed, I felt like I'd swallowed a bag of sand. My throat was dry and scratchy like I'd been eating glass shards instead of food. Each swallow was an exercise in misery as if the sand was expanding. I cursed under my breath, feeling like a damn idiot for letting myself get this thirsty. My mouth was so dry, that I could practically hear it cracking like a neglected sidewalk.

The thirst was relentless, gnawing at me like a dog with a bone. It mocked me with every painful swallow, reminding me of how stupidly out of touch I'd been with even the simplest of needs. I tried to ignore it, but the dry itch in my throat was like a bad itch you can't scratch.

The bed was warm, and the thought of leaving it felt like a death sentence. But that thirst was relentless, scratching at my insides like a beast.

So, like the lazy idiot I am, I decided to wake up my mom. She was sprawled beside me, snoring like a freight train, completely out of it and dreaming of a world where I wasn't an annoying little bastard. I poked her gently at first, just a soft nudge, like trying to wake up a dead fish. Of course, she didn't move an inch.

My anger was up. How dare she be so utterly useless at the exact moment I needed her? The more she ignored me, the more pissed off I got, she was actively ignoring my suffering, and that just made everything ten times worse.

I tried again, this time with a bit more force. "Ma... water," I croaked, sounding like I had been gargling sandpaper. My throat was so dry, the words came out like a strangled croak. But she just groaned, rolled over, and continued snoring like a freight train.

My frustration boiled over. "Get it yourself, you lazy little—" she muttered, something about raising a useless son. Really? Was she seriously gonna make me get up and get my own water? Wasn't she supposed to take care of me?

I nudged her again, harder this time, my patience long gone. "Ma! Water!" I hissed, barely able to get the words out.

Then, out of nowhere, she slapped me. Hard. One moment I'm poking her with the delicate precision of a toddler, and the next, her hand collided with my face like a sledgehammer to a chalkboard. It wasn't just a slap; it was pure punishment.

Her palm struck with such force, it felt like I'd been hit by a meteorite. My cheek stung in a blazing firestorm of pain, the kind of pain that makes you question your very existence.' The impact was so intense, I heard a crack that wasn't my own bones breaking.

My face burned, a hot, sharp sting, and I just sat there, dumbfounded and silent. She didn't even flinch—just rolled over and went back to sleep, like nothing happened.

I sat there, cheek throbbing, feeling like a complete idiot. My feet hit the cold floor, and I cursed under my breath. The cold wasn't just making me shiver; it seeped into my bones. Each step toward the kitchen felt like dragging a corpse—my own.

My feet hit the cold floor, and I cursed, low and sharp, under my breath. The kind of cold that doesn't just make you shiver—it seeps into your bones. It was no ordinary chill—it was a full-on assault, like being dunked in a vat of liquid nitrogen. Each step I took felt like I was stomping through a field of razor-sharp icicles, just waiting to shred my feet into bloody ribbons. Every step towards the kitchen felt like I was dragging a corpse—my own.

The hallway was a pitch-black tunnel, the only light coming from the pathetic glow of the moon outside, casting elongated shadows. It was straight out of one of those awful horror movies where the idiot stumbles around in the dark, and you just know they're about to get killed because they're too dumb to turn on a light.