Drawde | A flash fiction story
He used to have a name. Drawde, he guessed. He used to have an apartment. Felicity, he tried. He used to have water. Shit.
His throat was so dry, trying to swallow his own saliva was like rubbing two sheets of sandpaper together. There wasn’t any saliva left, really. It had evaporated.
He was glued to the rocky ground, gravity pushing his weak body down with massive weight. The weight of stupid decisions. The weight of the past. The weight of certain death.
The sky was a bright mixture of blue and cyan and violet and magenta. Lilac. It filled his eyes. There was no cloud, only a big, hot sun strolling across the sky. It was a beautiful day to die in the desert.
Then, his field of vision was invaded by a round shape. It shaded him from the bright hand of death. The shape was attached to a massive body, and the body crouched. The shape approached his face.
The body’s hands brought water to his mouth, and it clawed its way down his throat. When it got to his chest, it spread life back to places devoid of it. It went through his whole body, touching every single inch and bringing it back to life.
The massive body in front of him talked. “What’s your name?”
His injured, shaky lips tried to pair up with his dehydrated strawberry of a tongue to answer. As he opened his mouth something which had been glued together by the heat snapped back apart. “Shit.”
The shape blocking the sun nodded.
“Nice to meet you, Shit. I’m Jax.”