He was so very thirsty. Every part of him felt as if it were stuffed with dry cotton wool, his insides scratchy and tight and his exterior parched and dull.
If he could have screamed he would have done.
As she approached he reached towards her, begging for salvation.
And now suddenly he was drowning, the water filling every part of him, his very essence waterlogged with panic.
She peered at him as he slipped into darkness.
“Oh for crying out loud.”
“What?”
“I think I’ve killed the succulent.”
“Another one?”
“I might have overwatered it again.”
“Yep. He’s dead.”
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