Thirst

It’s time. I’m sitting inside a tent staring. I’m trying to think but my memory is fogged.

I’m thirsty.

Outside, the sun is setting. I stand and leave the tent. It’s getting dark in there anyway. Down the street, people are gathering, slowly forming a crowd. I start to join them but something stops me. A flash of red followed by a scream. I frown. I think my memory is coming back. It always gives me a headache whenever it does. I pat my head as a smile tug on my lips. I already forgot I had a hat on. I always wear one. A white one. Holding it down on both sides, I continue to walk. The crowd is growing. I walk past. Not many people pay attention to me. The ones who do look at me with disdain. I don’t mind. I’m used to it.

I’m getting thirstier.

I look around for a drink. None looks appealing. The last drink I had wasn't sweet either, but it had to be done. He had pulled my hair and called me a retard. Now, people are gathered. Bad things happen to bad people. I shrug. My last memory before this was of pain. I was only eighteen. I wanted him. Lola said he was good at it – that liar. She failed to tell me other things. She sent me to my doom. I have a crescent scar on my head, a constant reminder. My hat covers a lot. Maybe she didn't know, I think that sometimes when I'm sober. But there's no way to find out now. She was my first drink. People die when I’m thirsty, but I don’t care. They're mean to me. Sometimes, I stick out my tongue to their mean faces.

I need a drink.

My entry into Hive account@vermillionfox's flash fiction contest.

Image is from the original post.