A Prose With No Direction

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Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of the faucet dripping rings in my ear, calling my name and pleading for me to listen to it.

I'm smart enough to know to never trust water.

Not again.

Not after what it did to me.

To us.

To them.

.

.

.

.

.

And yet... I hear what they say to me.

"C..." they call me. "Come..."

Come, they say. Come.

I hug my legs tighter as I try to protect myself from the water.

I don't want to trust you, I speak, but no word is spoken.

"Come..." they echo.

I can't trust you, I say, but no word is said.

"You belong with us..." they smile.

I stare at the faucet.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The dripping echoes in my ear, sending a satisfying chill down my spine.

I want to trust you, I mumble, but no word is mumbled.

Slowly, my body unravels from its guarded position. The limbs that I am still able to call my own crawl their way towards the faucet, like a beggar to a man, shameless and hungry.

Don't trust them, she yells.

I'll try to trust you, I speak, but no words are spoken.

Don't trust them, she screams.

I'll try to trust you, I say, but no words are said.

Don't trust them, she cries.

"I'll trust you." I smile.

Begging, she pleads, "Don't trust them."

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The faucet is now in front of me.

I fill the sink to its brim, the rushing of waves colliding on the white surface ringing in the air.

Don't trust them!

She tries once more.

I turn my head to face the window to where she was, outside in the rain banging on the frames with all her might. She's calling for my attention.

She pleads.

She begs.

She cries.

Don't trust the waters, she sobs.