Water

Diane Height

Drops of water hit my forehead.  Slowly, with a certain rhythm.  A little runs into my mouth.  I’m thirsty, but my lips hurt when the water touches them.

I flinch in pain.

I know I can move—the ropes are gone.  But my limbs are stiff from being tied.

I hurt and I’m scared.

Still the water drips.  I imagine it making a hole in my forehead.  I don’t think it’s possible.  I’m probably just delusional.  Pain will do that to you.  So will other things.

I force my mind not to think about the pain and the dripping.

I wonder where he is.  Did he make it out?

His words rattle around in my head.

“I can’t take my eyes off her.  I can feel her heat even though we’re standing in snow.  She holds me in her stare with eyes that are so deep they’re almost black.  I can’t move—I don’t want to move.  She reaches out with her delicate hand and lightly touches me on the sleeve.  I start to sweat even though it’s cold.  She’s beautiful and moves like something out of my fantasies—dripping sensuality—and that’s when I know she has me.  She says nothing.  We just stare at each other for the longest time . . . touching.”

Even now the thought of him excites me.

I open my eyes.  But it’s so black I can’t see.

I hear breathing.  A faint sound at first, but then panting.  I don’t know if it’s human or animal.

The breathing stops.  Nothing.  Just the dripping of the water.

I know I have to get out, but how, I’m afraid.

Maybe if I lie here for awhile . . . But I can’t because something else is with me.  In the darkness.

Is it possible that I’ve gone insane? 

Why did he leave without me?

I haven’t heard the breathing for a long time.  Only silence and stillness.

I’m thinking of getting up—to leave, but I’m afraid.

I know what he’s feeling.  The drops of water hitting his forehead.  Slowly, with a certain rhythm.  A little runs into his mouth.  He’s thirsty, but his lips hurt when the water touches them.

He flinches in pain.

He knows he can move—the ropes are gone.  But his limbs are stiff from being tied.

He hurts and he’s scared.

Still the water drips.  He imagines it making a hole in his forehead.  He doesn’t think it’s possible.  He’s probably just delusional.  He knows pain will do that to you.  So will other things.

He forces his mind not to think about the pain and the dripping.

He wonders where I am.  Did I make it out?

I lie beside him—flesh barely touching.  Heat coming off our bodies—slick with sweat.

Climax and pain—always together.    

This is always the way it is for us.

In the black of the jungle night.

Diane Height's writing is inspired by her love of travel, adventure and the world at large.  She recently spent time in Africa working with cheetahs to help educate people about this beautiful animal.  In an earlier life she passed her wisdom along to 5th graders as an elementary school teacher.  When she's not writing, she enjoys her new grandson, Bodhi.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in All Things Girl, Clockwise Cat, Della Donna, Dog Versus Sandwich, Lucrezia, Mirror Dance, Sand, and The Short Humour Site.