being thirsty - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Who'd think you could be so thirsty in the rain? What I need is a long cool draught of water, what I get is the drops on my lips, a little more if I open my mouth. The first thing I'm doing after taking my shoes off is getting a drink, then another.
The burning sensation in my throat grew more when I pressed the cool glass rim against my dry, cracked lips. A single drop of water traced its way inside my mouth, I savoured it. Thick saliva lined the inside of my mouth immediately sapping any moisture that may enter.
I licked my lips, trying to wet my mouth. I put my eye up to my water bottle and saw all the way to the bottom, as if it would have magically filled itself while I wasn't paying attention. My tongue swiped across my lips again. My mouth was dry, and I panted from the heat, which wasn't helping. A slight breeze blew past, making my open mouth even drier. I wished I'd listened when she'd told me to fill up my water bottle when I'd had the chance.
It was a burn that didn't go away, but instead grew steadily stronger and harder to ignore as the day went on and the sun beat on my back and neck. The more drops of dew that formed on my sun kissed skin due to perspiration the more this hunger for the liquid lost overtook me and overthrew all of my other sense one at a time. My sight blurred in the singeing heat and made my eyes watery with visions of imaginary mirages. My sense of smell completely craved anything but the drying dirt and cut grass. In fact it craved the smell of stale ice melting in a cool glass of a drink that beads on the outside. My tongue gnawed at the roof of my parched mouth and the thick, roughness of my taste buds only increased until it was unbearable to stand any long.
The water is cloudy, chlorinated and warmer than my hand. The surface lacks the usual tension, possibly from the weight of fine debris. Knowing what the dust around here is made from after the bombings it makes me gag just to think of drinking it, but what else is there? I close my hand tighter around the glass and raise it off the table toward my cracking lips. It's people soup. I lower it un-drunk, my throat now leathery and coarse. Even if there were another person around to speak to I doubt I could utter a sound. Perhaps if I can make it to the mountains there will be glacier melt water, blue, clear, cold. I won't make it like this though, not beyond thirsty and well into dehydration. In one motion I raise the glass and chug it down before clasping both hands over my mouth to keep it in.
Every swallow was like glass down my throat and my eyes watered with the effort. Water was a wishful dream and food was a concept not even worth the effort of hoping for.
We take every opportunity to drink but there is never enough, sometimes it only wets our lips, our throats if we're fortunate. We will need to drink deeply of the next source we find, clean or not. Whatever bio-hazards it might hold it still gives us a better chance than dehydration - kill or cure I guess.
My throat is dry and sore; every lungful of hot hair robs more water from my body. There is a pain at the back of my head that threatens to grow into a powerful migraine, a sure sign that dehydration isn't far away. It I had a litre of water right now I'd drain the whole thing, but as it is I have none and its a long walk home to get some.
I wake with a white paste upon my lips, both of them withered to crinkled versions of what they should be. The corners of my mouth ache with my room swallowing yawn, the skin made less flexible by dryness. Whatever happened last night has taken every ounce of fluid my body could spare and then some I couldn't.