DRIP, DRIP

Drip, drip. The soft drop of water is what kept Jake alive it seemed. He sat on the dirty floor listening to it. It never sped up or slowed down; it was always in a constant pattern. Drip, drip. Sometimes the droplets would be louder, some softer; but they were always there to occupy his silent scene. Drip, drip. It was the soothing awareness that he was still alive. Still alive to hear the steady water. Drip, drip. He didn't know where it came from, although Jake had tried to find the source of the sound many times. It seems like he searched everywhere in the small, dark room possible; no corner or dirt pile was unchecked. But the water was never found. Drip, drip. He knew that it would stop one day, that it would be quiet. The water seemed to bring him hope and when that was gone so would he. Drip.