14-15-7

me: oh. it must be time for my record. i need a drink first. looks like the clock has less water in it this time, though.

i walk through some rooms until i find my cup and its table. sometimes, the floor takes the sound of my steps. but that’s okay.

me: are you thirsty, too? yeah, i bet you are.

i look under the table for the jug. all i find is nothing.

me: rats, the jug went away. don’t worry, i’ll be back soon.

i walk. and walk. in the room two walks away, there is dirt and a plant in the jug.

me: Father says you’re not allowed in here.

plant, in his ugly dirt voice: And yet, here I am. Your father is not as powerful as you believe he is.

me, a little scared: get out.

plant: There is a sickness within you, child. You rot and fester as you live and breathe. It is a sickness with no cure, born from lies and blasphemy. You are an affront to all that exists.

me, more scared and a little crylike: get out. you are Foul. you aren’t allowed here.

plant: The pot calls the kettle black, child. Each word you speak, your feculent veil distends yet larger and coats all that you see in a film of your ethereal mire. Your precious home is built from the corpses of sinners upon a bed of ignorant naivete.

me, crying now: please, just give me my water back.

plant: Fill your pail with your tears, foul one, but take care that you don’t dissolve.

i think the plant went out a broken window. i don’t know, i couldn’t see because i was crying. it’s okay. he’s back in the filth now.

there’s

nothing else i can do. i cry. i cry into the jug. it fills with sad. after time, it’s full.

i walk back to my cup.

me, still a little cryish: take it, you greedy bastard.