Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Thesound of the leaking pipe echoed as I stared at the rough concrete wall of the basement, unblinking, because looking anywhere else felt like a worse betrayal. The wall didn't accuse me. It didn't cry or rot. It didn't remind me of all the ways I had failed.
The smell of death was everywhere, thick and sticky like a second skin I couldn't scrape off. It clung to my hair, my clothes, my nostrils. There was a time when the stench of rot would have sent my stomach churning, but now? Now it was just… there. Part of the room. Part of me. It was like my body had resigned itself, given up on protesting against the horror of it all.
I swallowed, my throat dry and raw, my lips cracked from thirst. The ache in my body was constant, but the thirst was worse. It felt like my tongue had turned into sandpaper, rasping against the roof of my mouth every time I tried to work up enough spit to swallow.
