the {thirst} is too great (Ink, Day Three)

Smiling face that no one really knows,
Singin' about the passion in my soul.
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I run until I can't run anymore. Everything aches and my lungs scream for oxygen far sooner than they should- I let out one final rasping cough before dropping to my hands and knees, back bending into itself in agony as my exhausted body tries to rid itself of everything in my stomach. The nonstop running has taken its toll on me, but there is little to purge, and something vile tasting liquid is the only thing that comes out, and even then only in little dribbles. It makes the sand beneath it really look like blood, and I back away on my hands and knees as fast as possible before I begin to cough again, a dry cough that hurts because there is no liquid left in me to cushion it. I find my fingernails clawing across the skin on my arm, peeling back the top of multiple mosquito bites so that they bleed. I cringe and force it back down, into the sand, where it can do me no more harm.

Just yesterday I was in wonderful condition. And now... dehydration is slowly killing my already tattered body, and my frame shutters as my stomach attempts yet again to give up what it doesn't have. My arm screams in pain, as if liquid fire is shooting out of the breaking point. I've felt this before- the time that I fell out of the tree. I remember Luke finding me and scooping me up into his arms, and Imi's fevered voice, and my own sobs. But even if I wanted to cry, now, I don't think I could. I don't have enough body fluid to make a single tear. My tongue is like sandpaper. I'm falling apart from the inside out.

I have water, though nothing to purify it with. I don't want to risk going into another tower to try and find wood to boil it. Trembling limbs dig through the bag until at last skeletal fingers clasp around the jug so hard I think they might break, too. As I pull it out, I can feel the water inside slosh around. I stare at it longingly for a long while. I can't do this. I could get sick, and then where would I be? One step closer to death. But the water... if I don't drink soon, I'll die. But still, I can't do this. It's too risky. The trainers told me. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

But then my stomach caves again and suddenly I can.

The top won't come off fast enough and I tilt my head back, pouring the liquid down my throat. My body greets the water with a warm welcome, and even though I know it must be warm it feels ice cold as it enters me. Water. Real, honest to goodness water. I drink every last drop and then sit there, wishing I had more but still satisfied, grinning. And then it hits me. I just drank unpurified water. The jug slips through my fingers and I stare at it, lying in the red sand. Lying in the blood. How appropriate, seeing as I may have just caused my own death.

What have I done?

[dice=3]

Without waiting to see how it affects me, I spring to my feet, scooping up the jug last second and taking up, though clumsily and with joints still aching in protest. My feet catch on invisible objects and the world tilts dangerously, and yet I find I cannot stop. I do what I always do when I see danger.

I flee.

(OOC: Inkling Marling has drunk water and fled)

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