Mother hid the waterfall well. I don’t know how she found it to begin with but I do know she did everything she could to keep it hidden. She set up noise cancelling barriers all around to disguise the sound of the rushing water and built a canopy of rocks over the top so it couldn’t be seen from above. By initiating rumours that the area near by had radiation in the air, she ensured that no one would stumble across it by accident. If you weren’t looking for it, you would never find it. Never find me.

Unfortunately, they’re looking for both.

Before Mother died, she would tell me that our waterfall wasn’t the only one. That there were countless all over the world just waiting to be discovered. I’ve never left the waterfall but I get the impression that a lot of people believe - or at least hope for - this to be true, but there’s no proof. The government wants these waterfalls, just like everyone else affected by the lack of water.

When people turn sixteen, they take a test. A test which decides whether they can contribute to society and are worthy of wasting precious water on. If you fail the test, they put you out of your misery.

It’s my sixteenth birthday. I live under a waterfall. They’re looking for water, and they’re looking for me.

As much as i love the waterfall, sometimes i wish i had had a normal childhood, or as normal as possible when there’s a water shortage. Mother did all she could to educate me but it wasn’t anywhere near enough to help me pass the test. If I leave and take the test, I will fail. They will kill me. If a stay here, they will find me and I will lose my home. I don’t doubt they will kill me in that scenario too.

When I was young I would ask Mother what would happen to me when I turned sixteen, she would shush me and tell me that we would worry about that when the time came. The time has come, and there is no ‘we’. I’m on my own.

They’re going to find me. They’re going to find my waterfall.