The metal chair is like ice against her skin. She breathes, drawing in stale air and the sterile, chemical scent of the room. It has been scrubbed clean, every last trace of DNA burned away. They have left her here, alone, knowing that nobody will find her in time. It is too late.
She can feel her throat drying. It’s like she’s swallowing sandpaper. Every part of her aches to drink, to feel cold liquid on her tongue, to have even a drop to save her from the desert inside.
And there it sits on the table.
A glass, a little over half-full. Clear, glistening, looking pure as a mountain spring.
She wants it. She needs it.
But she knows that it is poison. They told her it was. Enough to kill her.
If she drinks the water, she will die. They tell her it will be agony.
If she waits, if nobody arrives in time, she will die. The dehydration will finish her off.
She looks at the poison and wonders if the pain could be worse than this.
Perhaps, she thinks, it isn’t poison at all. Perhaps they were lying.
And slowly, she reaches for the cup.
Word Count: 199
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.