My heart started pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. I stumbled back, nearly slipping on the tiles, my eyes still locked on the toilet as if looking away would somehow make it disappear — or worse, let it come out unnoticed.
The water rippled again.
It wasn’t trying to hide. It was trapped.
That realization hit almost as hard as the fear. The snake must have come up through the pipes — something I had only ever heard about in stories I never really believed. But there it was, coiled awkwardly in the bowl, occasionally lifting its head as if searching for a way out.
I didn’t dare get closer.
Slowly, carefully, I backed out of the bathroom and shut the door, my hands trembling as I reached for my phone. Every instinct screamed to keep distance. This wasn’t something I could handle on my own.
Within minutes, I was calling for help.
As I stood outside, staring at the closed door, I couldn’t stop thinking about how normal the morning had felt just moments before. One small, routine action — lifting a lid — and suddenly everything had changed.
And the strangest part?
I kept imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t looked first.