title: "A Drop'll Do Ya" aliases: [] tags: [FA] author: [SpeckLaz] id: [49622692] date: 星期六, 十一月 12日 2022, 12:16:45 凌晨 modified: 星期六, 十一月 12日 2022, 12:49:02 凌晨

[TOC]

A Drop'll Do Ya

Author: SpeckLaz Source: A Drop'll Do Ya'

Relief.

The sudden absence of weight on your chest as the sole above relaxes. It's as painful as the full weight. Your friend's sole rises further. The cacophonous peeling of moisture, its bind to the insole of the flip-flop releasing. Deafening. A welcome pain to your eardrums.

You inhale. The air tinged with the potent musk of hours of buildup. It's the first time in a long while that you take a full breath. Sitting up, your entire being is sore. Every muscle, tendon, and joint screamed. The pain throbbing with your heartbeat. A timed reminder of how awful those hours underfoot had been.

The rumble and shake of your friend's lowest extremity signaled its exit. Bright artificial light seeped in from the sides of their paw. Toes dragged at first as they worked under the straps. They then lifted, slipping past. Living mountains flexed. A noise of slick, sweaty toes sliding against themselves. Audible only to someone as small as you. Echoing pops of joints loud enough for someone of regular size to distinguish. Like fireworks going off above your head.

It must have felt good for them. A deep sigh rumbled through the air around you and the humble piece of footwear that was your world. The air moved in and out of your mouth on its own from the raw sound of their continental vocals.

You count your lucky stars. There was little time for the long trip you had ahead of you. You needed to reach the edge of their flip-flop. Then you'd have the decision to make. You could stay on the insole. It's a hilly, cracked landscape. A mish-mash full of fissures. Peppered with erosion-smoothed areas coated in a thin sheen of salt. A landscape of hostility to someone of your stature. And that's not even thinking about their paw when it returns. Or take a chance, and move down to the floor...if even possible.

Those are decisions that are best left for when you get there. Another, louder series of pops. Your friend's toes were overhead. That's all the incentive you needed to begin to move. You took your jacket off to leave behind. No use for it in such a tattered state, especially in the heat of your friend’s existence.

Your thoughts drift to the future. If you make it--no--When you make it. When you get within distance of your friend being able to notice you, how do you do so? Can you even do so? No. You will. You'll get their attention. You have to. Optimism is often rew—

—a pattering of wet drops interrupts your self-aimed pep talk. You turn. There's a haze approaching. An atomized curtain of sweat straight from the toe'd source above. Landing on and soaking into the damp world around you. It’s coming. You begin to run. It envelops you within seconds. An ant cannot outrun a hurricane.

A single droplet lands on you. Acrid. Foul. It violates every bit of your body. It breaks apart, but the surface tension keeps several drops the size of your head stuck to your body. Another drop, this one the size of a house, crashes nearby. Its leftovers splatter upward and onto you. You're beginning to feel them sapping your energy. You trip. The excess weight has bogged you down. You hit the sole-polished surface. You manage to assist the coalescence of those drops. They engulf your lower half.

Another sickening splatter. Another burst of the nightmare liquid. You're contained. Your eyes are open and the salty fluid immediately burns them. Bubbles from your shocked, screaming exhale hang in the viscosity of the sweat. What could be your last breath hangs close with intimacy.

Through the sweat, you can hear more drops raining down. You begin your best effort to swim toward the edge of the drop. As you're about to approach it, a massive drop lands atop the one you're trapped within. Fresh heat greets you. The edge you were at moves away. A disheartening result of drops increasing into a larger one.

You swim for your life. The sweat is so thick. Your lungs start to burn. You're once again on the edge of the drop. You reach your hand out to see if you can begin to extract yourself. Another wet impact. The small drops it explodes into bounce onto the side of the drop holding you hostage. They slide down the outside, not yet absorbed. Finally, you're at the edge. You thrust your hand out hard, hoping it will breach. The edge is solid. It feels like rubber, but with less give.

You push for all you're worth. You throw the most potent punches you ever have in your life. Your lungs are reaching a level of pain your ruining eyes have been in. You panic, you move any part of your body you can. You burn through your oxygen. You feel a surge of frustration, a feeling of defiance, a dip of hopelessness.

You're right there.

Your thoughts turn to one thing: a breath. You know you can’t. You're inside a drop of sweat. This is liquid, but damn it all because your instincts are telling you to take it in. You need to catch your breath. You need to do that now. Even with your brain shouting not to, your body doesn't care. The instinct to survive wins. Survival betrayals you. Your mouth opens and you take in as much sweat as you can. You're rewarded with the instant feeling of overweight, singed lungs. Your ears pop. You're dizzy. Spots in your vision form. The visible world becomes a bit further away. You swear you can see your friend standing right at the edge of the droplet smiling, watching you choke. You feel anger at first. Then you feel calm. They fade away. Back to the never-ending plain of the flip-flop. It's the last sight you see as your world finally goes dark.

Drowned.