Rosie had never liked going in the water, not even as a baby. As she grew up, all through the terrible twos, she kicked and screamed whenever she had a bath. The tantrums subsided a bit, but never really went away as she grew older, always protesting and moaning about washing, or showering. She even got surly whenever she had to add water to squash for anyone.
She never learned to swim, and she always went out of her way to not step in puddles. And anytime they were at the seaside, she regarded the ocean with an odd mix of fear and sorrow.
It didn’t help that the family liked boating either. Every time they went out for a sail, she would sit in her life jacket, and sulk. So, when she was old enough to be left behind on shore, that’s exactly what they did.
By the time she moved out, she’d learned how to wash without water, and learned how to avoid any water based activities. What she couldn’t avoid was drinking it, and that meant she always felt bilious when she had to hydrate. Even cutting up watery things like tomatoes, or cucumber made her queasy.
Her revelation came on her thirtieth birthday. She was in a friend’s garden, tolerating a surprise party she had neither wanted nor courted, staring at their pond. Beneath the surface, she could see the fish swimming around, darting from point to point, as a little fountain recycled the flow, and tossed an unappealing symphony of sound into the air.
The water was sentient.
Deep down, she had always known it, but now she could articulate it.
She bolted to her feet, and dashed from person to person, tossing their drinks from their hands, liberating the trapped liquids from their man made cages.
Everyone thought her quite mad.
But the more she studied it, the more she became convinced.
Water was alive.
It was a single, living being, that the rest of planet was abusing every second of the day. We defecated into it, we washed our grubby bodies in it, we trapped it in tanks, tore pieces off of it and passed it though our stomachs.
And from what Rosie could tell, the water had had enough.
It was planning on fighting back.
And Rosie was planning on helping it.
She devised a means of communication, and learned its language. They bonded and became friends, her and the water, and together they plotted.
And come the day, the revenge was sweet.
The world awoke to find itself dry.
The water had left the planet.
All that remained was dust.