My fucking head hurts.
I lace up my shoes and open the door.
Drink some water.
I turn to face her.
"Why?" I scowl.
You're dehydrated.
That's why your head hurts.
"No," I respond.
Water...
Once a friend now an enemy.
Fuck it.
I step outside.
He's just like you, she taunts.
I stop.
He's just like you and the water.
I turn to face her smart ass. "No, he's not like me," I frown, yelling at her. I look towards the glass of water in her hand.
I bite my lip. "Since he didn't have anyone to stop him."
Legs make their way towards the red truck, the screeching of the door's hinges echoing as she closes the door.
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YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
