The fawn-child sighs and looks into the mouth of that faucet; it seems this game of tug-of-war is due to begin, as it does every day. Knees knocking, the bruises from this compulsion meeting in a kiss, it cups its palms and looks down, each fold and wrinkle in the same place it had been the day before. It searches from above and below rushedly for specks of light peeking through, squeezing its fingers together, and folding its palms. The small bowl it has made quakes with the force it uses to keep its palms together, airtight, so no light slips through. I know this time won’t be any different, but what else is there to do but try again? It checks one last time, in case the integrity of its cupped palms had been compromised, still finding no cracks or holes, but I know they are there, they always are. It will always leave this faucet empty-handed.
Shifting my focus back to the matter at hand, it shifts, reaching out to feel the cool silver handle. As always, it weakly leads with the right hand, abandoning the left under the beastly jowls of the faucet. With an iron grip and white knuckles, it pulls the knob toward its frail body, releasing it the moment its left hand is covered in that coveted cool chill of life. Left and right make a rushed reunion in an attempt to contain their hostage. Precious nectar drips to the floor, through its fingers, running down its wrists. There is so much, and I need it all.
The dam overflows, and I know I must be quick now. Leading with its right once more, it rips it away from the left, grasping for the icy knob. I hardly have time to notice now, how my bare feet and legs are misty with the residue left by stray streams. It pushes itself back using the force of the primal desperation with which it shut off that god-given, vile, faucet. The sides of its palms clash together, and the force resounds throughout each joint. There is no movement now but for the thing’s quick shallow breaths rocking its body. I have to look down now.
In the small creature’s palms there is a tiny pool, too small to even make a mouthful, and even as it watches, the pool seeps away. Greedily, the grubby, neglected cherub brings its hands to its face to lap from the tiny palms. It isn’t enough, it never is. Where did it go? Why can’t I hold this? My life had rested in my hands and once again I let it get away.
My dam overflows, and it wails in despair, the cries bouncing about the endless black void, the overwhelming amount of nothing. There is only this faucet and I, and this grey body soon will rot away. It drops to its ruined knees and heaves, coughing and shaking on the dark wet surface on which the wretched babe now lay crumpled. All it can do is turn its infantile face so its cheek lays against the cool blackness. Its tongue flicks from its mouth, ashamed, but the serpent has no nobility to uphold, its only quest is to quench the thirst.
It will spend this day licking the floors clean, and when it passes out from exhaustion the day will be ended. Tomorrow it will wake up and try yet again. Tomorrow it will wake up and fail yet again. Still this child will not change; I suppose I’ll never think of that.